'        •'  v  >r  • 

: 


Miss    Primrose 


Roy  Rolfe  Gil  son 


Author  of"  The  Flower  of  Youth" 
"  In  the  Morning  Glow  "  etc. 


York     and    London 
Harper     &     Brothers 
Publishers     ::     MCMV1 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  rtstmd. 

Published  March,  1906. 


Contents 

PART   I 
A  Devonshire  Lad 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  LETITIA 3 

II.  LITTLE  RUGBY 13 

III.  A  POET  OP  GRASSY  FORD 27 

IV.  THE  SEVENTH  SLICE 43 

V.  THE  HANDMAIDEN 61 

VI.  COUSIN  DOVE 71 

VII.  OP  HAMADRYADS  AND  THEIR  SPELLS     ...  88 

PART   II 

The  School-Mistress 

I.  THE  OLDER  LETITIA 101 

II.  ON  A  CORNER  SHELF 113 

III.  A  YOUNGER  ROBIN 123 

IV.  HIRAM  PTOLEMY 136 

V.  A.  P.  A 150 

VI.  TRUANTS  IN  ARCADY 164 

VII.  PEGGY  NEAL 177 

VIII.  NEW  EDEN 188 

IX.  A  SERIOUS  MATTER 202 

iii 


2135679 


Contents 

PART   III 
Rosemary 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  HOME-KEEPER 211 

II.  JOHNNY  KEATS 219 

III.  THE  FORTUNE-TELLER 234 

IV.  AN  UNEXPECTED  LETTER 244 

V.  SURPRISES 252 

VI.  AN  OLD  FRIEND  OF  OURS 264 

VII.  SUZANNE 275 

VIII.  IN  A  DEVON  LANE  . 287 


PART   I 
A    Devonshire   Lad 


Miss    Primrose 


i 

LETITIA 

|LL  little,  white-haired,  smiling  ladies 
remind  me  of  Letitia — Letitia  Prim- 
rose, whom  you  saw  just  now  in 
a  corner  of  our  garden  among  the 
petunias.  You  thought  her  odd, 
no  doubt,  not  knowing  her  as  I  or  as  the  children 
do  who  find  her  dough-nuts  sweet  after  school 
is  done,  or  their  English  cousins,  those  little 
brown  -  feathered  beggars  waiting  on  winter 
mornings  in  the  snow-drifts  at  her  sill.  As  for 
myself,  I  must  own  to  a  certain  kinship,  as  it 
were,  not  of  blood  but  of  propinquity,  a  long 
next-doorhood  in  our  youth,  a  tenderer,  name- 
less tie  in  after  years,  and  always  a  fond  par- 
tiality which  began  one  day  by  our  old  green 

3 


Miss  Primrose 

fence.  There,  on  its  Primrose  side,  it  seems,  she 
had  parted  the  grape-vines,  looking  for  fruit, 
and  found  instead — 

"Why!  whose  little  boy  is  this?" 

Now,  it  happened  to  be  Bertram,  Jonathan 
Weatherby's  little  boy — it  being  a  holiday,  and 
two  pickets  off,  and  the  Concords  purple  in  a 
witchery  of  September  sheen — though  at  first 
he  could  make  no  sign  to  her  of  his  parentage, 
so  surprised  he  was,  and  his  mouth  so  crammed. 

"Will  I  die?"  he  asked,  when  he  had  gulped 
down  all  but  his  tongue. 

"Die!"  she  replied,  laughing  at  his  grave, 
round  eyes  and  pinching  his  nearer  cheek.  "  Do 
I  look  like  an  ogress?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "but  I've  gone  and  swallowed 
'em." 

"The  grapes?" 

"No — yes — but  I  mean  the  pits,"  whereat  she 
laughed  so  that  his  brow  darkened. 

"Well,  a  man  did  once." 

"Did  what?" 

"Died — from  swallowin'  'em." 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"Maggie  did." 

"And  who  is  Maggie?" 
4 


Letitia 

"  Why,  you  know  Maggie.   She's  our  hired  girl." 

"How  many  did  you  swallow?" 

"Five." 

"Five!" 

"Or  six,  I  guess.     I'm  not  quite  sure." 

"What  made  you  do  it?" 

"I  didn't.     You  did." 

"I  made  you  swallow  them?" 

"Why,  yes,  'cause,  now,  I  had  'em  in  my 
mouth — " 

"Six  all  at  once!" 

"Yes,  and  you  went  and  scared  me.  I  forgot 
to  think." 

"Mercy!     I'm  sorry,  darling." 

"My  name  isn't  darling.     It's  Bertram." 

"I'm  sorry,  Bertram." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  forgave  her,  cheer- 
fully, "as  long  as  I  don't  die  like  the  man  did; 
you'll  know  pretty  soon,  I  guess." 

"How  shall  I  know?" 

"  Well,  the  man,  he  hollered.  You  could  hear 
him  'cross  lots,  Maggie  says.  So,  if  you  listen, 
why,  pretty  soon  you'll  know." 

And  it  is  due  partly  to  the  fact  that  Letitia 
Primrose,  listening,  heard  no  hollering  across 
lots,  that  I  am  able  here  to  record  the  very 

5 


Miss  Primrose 

day  and  hour  when  I  first  met  her ;  partly  that, 
and  partly  because  Letitia  has  a  better  mem- 
ory than  Jonathan  Weatherby's  little  boy,  for  I 
do  not  remember  the  thing  at  all  and  must  take 
her  word  for  it. 

She  was  not  gray  then,  of  course.  It  must 
have  been  a  pink,  sweet,  merry  face  that  peered 
at  me  through  the  grape-vines,  and  a  ringing 
laugh  in  those  days,  and  two  plump  fingers  that 
pinched  my  cheek.  Her  hair  was  brown  and 
hung  in  braids,  she  tells  me.  She  may  have  been 
fourteen. 

I  do  not  remember  her  so  young.  I  do  re- 
member hugging  some  one  and  being  hugged, 
next  door — once  in  the  bay-window  by  the  red 
geraniums,  whose  scent  still  bears  to  me  some 
faint,  sweet  airs  of  summers  gone.  It  was  not  a 
relative  who  hugged  me ;  I  know  by  the  feeling — 
the  remembered  feeling — for  I  was  dutiful  but 
not  o'er  keen  in  the  matter  of  kissing  our  kith 
and  kin.  No,  it  was  some  one  who  took  me  by 
surprise  and  rumpled  me,  some  one  who  seemed, 
somehow,  to  have  the  right  to 'me,  though  not 
by  blood — some  one  too  who  was  nearer  my  age 
than  most  of  our  relatives,  who  were  not  so 
young  and  round  and  luring  as  I  recall  them. 

6 


Let it i a 

It  was  some  one  kneeling,  so  that  our  heads  were 
even.  The  carpet  was  red,  I  remember.  I  had 
run  in  from  play,  I  suppose,  and  she  was  there, 
and  I — I  may  have  been  irresistible  in  those 
days.  At  least  I  know  it  was  not  I,  but  Eve 
who — 

That  must  have  been  Letitia.  I  have  never 
asked,  but  it  was  not  Cousin  Julia,  or  the  Potter 
girl,  or  Sammy's  sister.  Excluding  the  rest  of 
the  world,  I  infer  Letitia.  And  why  not  kiss 
me?  She  kissed  Sammy,  that  fat,  little,  pud- 
ding-head Sammy  McSomething,  who  played  the 
mouth-organ.  Since  of  all  the  tunes  in  the  world 
he  knew  but  one  (you  know  which  one) ,  it  may 
seem  foolish  that  I  cared;  but,  remember,  I 
played  none !  And  she  kissed  him  for  playing — 
kissed  him,  pudgy  and  vulgar  as  he  was  with  the 
fetty-bag  tied  to  his  neck  by  a  dirty  string  to 
ward  off  contagions!  Ugh!  I  swore  a  green, 
green  oath  to  learn  the  accordion. 

That  night  in  bed — night  of  the  day  she  kissed 
him — with  only  the  moon-lamp  burning  outside 
my  window,  I  felt  that  my  cheeks  were  wet.  I 
had  been  thinking.  It  had  come  to  me  awfully 
as  I  tossed,  that  I  had  been  born  too  late — for 
Letitia.  Always, I  should  be  too  young  for  her. 

7 


Miss  Primrose 

Dear  Letitia,  white  and  kneeling  even  then, 
perhaps,  at  your  whiter  prayers,  or  reading 
after  them,  before  you  slept,  in  the  Jane  Eyre 
which  lay  for  years  beneath  your  pillow,  you 
did  not  dream  that  you  also  were  a  heroine 
of  romance.  You  did  not  dream  of  the  plot 
then  hatching  in  the  night :  plot  with  a  vil- 
lain in  it  —  oh,  beware,  Letitia,  of  a  pudgy, 
vulgar,  superstitious  villain  wearing  a  charmed 
necklace  of  assafcetida  to  ward  off  evils,  but  pow- 
erless, even  quite  odorless  against  that  green- 
eyed  one!  For,  lo!  Letitia:  thy  Hero  standing 
beneath  thy  chamber  -  window  in  the  moon- 
beams, is  singing  soprano  to  the  gentle  bellows- 
ings  of  early  love! 

No,  I  do  not  play  the  accordion,  nor  did  I 
ever.  I  never  even  owned  one,  so  I  never  prac- 
tised secretly  in  the  barn-loft,  nor  did  I  ever, 
after  all  my  plotting,  lure  young  Sammy  to  play 
"Sweet  Home"  to  our  dear  lady  in  the  moon- 
shine, only  to  be  eclipsed,  to  his  dire  confusion 
and  everlasting  shame,  by  me.  It  may  have 
been  that  I  had  no  pocket-money,  or  that  Santa 
Claus  was  short  that  year  in  his  stock  of  wind- 
instruments,  or  that  Jonathan  Weatherby  had 
no  ear  for  melody  about  the  house,  but  it  is  far 

8 


Letitia 

more  likely  that  Letitia  Primrose  never  again 
offended,  to  my  knowledge,  in  the  matter  of 
pudgy  little  vulgar  boys. 

Now,  as  I  muse  the  longer  of  that  fair  young 
lady  who  lived  next  door  to  us,  as  I  see  myself 
crawling  through  the  place  with  the  pickets  off, 
and  recall  beyond  it  the  smell  and  taste  of  the 
warm  Concords  in  my  petty  larcenies  of  a  dozen 
autumns,  then  other  things  come  back  to  me,  of 
Letitia 's  youth,  of  its  cares  and  sacrifice  and 
its  motherlessness.  The  Rev.  David  Primrose, 
superannuate  divine,  bard  and  scholar,  lived 
mostly  in  a  chair,  as  I  recall  him,  and  it  was 
Letitia  who  wheeled  him  on  sunny  days  when 
other  girls  were  larking,  who  sat  beside  it  in  the 
bay-window,  half  -  screened  by  her  geraniums, 
reading  to  him  when  his  eyes  were  weary,  writing 
for  him, when  his  hand  trembled,  those  fine  fancies 
that  helped  him  to  forget  his  sad  and  premature 
decay.  She  was  his  only  child,  his  only  house- 
maid, gardener,  errand-boy,  and  "angel,"  as 
mother  said,  and  the  mater  went  sometimes  to 
sit  evenings  with  him  lest  Letitia  should  never 
know  joys  of  straw-rides  and  taffy-pulls  and 
church-sociable  ice-cream  and  cake. 

He  had  a  fine,  white,  haggard  face,  too  stern 
9 


Miss  Primrose 

for  a  little  child  to  care  for,  but  less  forbidding 
to  a  growing  school  -  boy  who  had  found  by 
chance  that  it  softened  wonderfully  with  mem- 
ories of  that  Rugby  where  Tom  Brown  went 
to  school ;  for  Dr.  Primrose  had  conned  his 
Xenophon  within  those  very  ivied -walls,  and, 
what  was  more  to  Bertram  Weatherby,  under 
those  very  skies  had  fled  like  Tom,  a  hunted  hare, 
working  fleet  wonders  in  the  fields  of  Warwick- 
shire. 

"A  mad  March  hare  I  was,  Bertram,"  he 
would  tell  me,  the  light  of  his  eyes  blazing  in  that 
little  wind  of  a  happy  memory,  only  to  sink  and 
go  out  again.  Smoothing  then  with  his  fine, 
white  hands  the  plaid  shawl  which  had  been  his 
wife's  and  was  now  a  coverlet  for  his  wasted 
knees,  he  would  say,  sadly: 

"Broomsticks,  Bertram  —  but  in  their  day 
there  were  no  fleeter  limbs  in  Rugby." 

There  on  my  upper  shelf  is  an  old,  worn,  dusty 
copy  of  the  Odes  of  Horace,  which  I  cannot  read, 
but  it  bears  on  its  title-page,  in  a  school-boy's 
scrawl,  the  name  and  date  for  which  I  prize  it: 

"David  Buckleton  Primrose,  Rugby,  A.D. 
18— ." 

He  laughed  as  he  gave  it  to  me. 

10 


Let it i a 

"Mark,  Bertram,"  said  he,  "the  'A.D.'" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  replied,  tremulously. 
"You  bet  I'll  always  keep  it,  Mr.  Primrose." 

"Dr.  Primrose,"  he  reproved  me,  gently. 

"Doctor,  I  mean.  Maybe  Tom  had  one  like 
it." 

"Likely,"  he  replied.  "You  must  learn  to 
read  it." 

"Oh,  I  will,  sir— and  Greek." 

"That's  right,  my  boy.  Remember  always 
what  Dr.  Primrose  said  when  he  gave  you  Hor- 
ace: that  no  gentleman  could  have  pretensions 
to  sound  culture  who  was  not  well-grounded  in 
the  classics.  Can  you  remember  that?" 

Twice  he  made  me  repeat  it. 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  I  can  remember  it,"  I  told  him. 
"Do  you  suppose  Tom  put  in  his  name  like 
that?" 

"Doubtless,"  said  Dr.  Primrose,  "minus  the 
A.D." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  a  middle  name,"  I  said. 

"  Buckleton  was  my  mother's  maiden  name," 
he  explained.  "  She  was  of  the  Wiltshire  Buckle- 
tons,  and  a  very  good  family,  too." 

"David  Buckleton  Primrose,"  I  read  aloud. 

"Lineal  descendant  of  Dr.  Charles  Primrose, 
ii 


Miss    Primrose 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  added  the  minister,  so 
solemnly  that  I  fairly  caught  my  breath.  I  had 
no  notion  then  of  whom  he  spoke,  but  there 
was  that  in  the  chant  of  his  deep  voice  and 
the  pleasant,  pompous  sound  he  gave  the  title, 
which  awed  me  so  I  could  only  stare  at  him,  and 
then  at  Horace,  and  then  at  him  again,  as  he 
lay  back  solemnly  in  his  chair,  regarding  me  with 
half -shut  eyes.  Slowly  a  smile  overspread  his 
features. 

"  I  was  only  jesting.  Did  you  never  hear  of 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefieldf" 

"No,"  I  said. 

"There:  that  little  yellow  book  on  the  third 
shelf,  between  the  green  ones.  He  was  its  hero,  a 
famous  character  of  Oliver  Goldsmith's.  He  also 
was  a  clergyman,  and  his  name  was  Primrose." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "and  did  he  go  to  Rugby,  sir?" 

Now,  though  the  doctor  laughed  and  shook  his 
head,  somehow  I  got  that  notion  in  my  noddle, 
and  to  this  very  day  must  stop  to  remember 
that  the  vicar  was  not  a  Rugby  boy.  I  have 
even  caught  myself  imagining  that  I  had  read 
somewhere,  or  perhaps  been  told,  that  his  middle 
name  was  Buckleton.  One  thing,  of  course,  was 
true  of  both  Primroses:  they  lived  A.D. 

12 


II 

LITTLE    RUGBY 

[UNTING  fox-grapes  on  a  Saturday 
in  fall,  or  rambling  truantly  on  a 
fair  spring  morning,  and  chuckling 
to  hear  the  school-bells  calling  in 
vain  to  us  across  the  meadows,  it 
was  fine  to  say: 

"Gee!  If  there  was  only  a  game-keeper  to 
get  into  a  row  with!" 

And  then  hear  Peter's  answer: 
"  Gee,  yes !    Remember  how  Velveteens  caught 
Tom  up  a  tree?" 

It  was  fine,  I  say,  because  it  proved  that 
Peter,  too,  knew  Tom  Brown's  School  Days,  and 
all  about  Slogger  Williams  and  Tom's  fight  with 
him,  all  about  East  and  Arthur  and  Dr.  Arnold, 
and  Tom  in  the  last  chapter  standing  alone  in 
the  Rugby  chapel  by  the  doctor's  grave. 

One  night  in  winter  I  remember  keeping  watch 
13 


Miss   Primrose 

— hard-pressed  was  Caesar  by  the  hordes  of  Gaul 
— a  merest  stripling  from  among  the  legions, 
stealthily  deserted  post,  braving  the  morrow's 
reckoning  to  linger  in  delicious  idleness  by  his 
father's  shelves.  There,  in  a  tattered  copy  of  an 
old  Harper's,  whose  cover  fluttered  to  the  hearth- 
rug, his  eyes  fell  upon  a  set  of  drawings  of  a  gate, 
a  quadrangle,  a  tower  door  with  ivy  over  it,  a 
cricket-field  with  boys  playing  and  scattering  a 
flock  of  sheep,  a  shop  (at  this  his  eyes  grew 
wider) — a  mere  little  Englishy  village-shop,  to  be 
sure,  blit  not  like  others,  for  this,  indeed,  was 
Sallie  Harrowell's,  where  Tom  bought  baked 
potatoes  and  a  pennyworth  of  tea!  And  out 
of  one  full,  dark  page  looked  Dr.  Arnold — a 
face  as  fine  and  wise  and  tender  as  Bertram 
Weatherby  had  fancied  it,  so  that  he  turned 
from  it  but  to  turn  back  again,  thinking  how 
Tom  had  looked  upon  its  living  presence  in 
more  wondrous  days.  Caesar's  deserter  read  and 
looked,  and  looked  and  read  again,  beside  the 
hearth,  forgetting  the  legions  in  the  Gallic  wilds, 
forgetting  the  Roman  sentry  calls  for  the  cries 
of  cricketers,  and  seeing  naught  but  the  guarded 
wickets  on  an  English  green  and  how  the  sheep 
browsed  peacefully  under  the  windows  in  the  vines. 


Little   Rugby 

Schoolward  next  morning  Rugby  and  Caesar 
nestled  together  beneath  his  arm.  He  found  his 
Little  Rugby  on  a  hill — a  red  brick  school-house 
standing  awkwardly  and  solemn  -  eyed  in  its 
threadbare  playground,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
poor  school-master,  impoverished  without,  well 
stocked  within.  It  was  an  ugly,  mathematical- 
looking  Rugby,  austere  and  angular,  and  with- 
out a  shred  of  vine  or  arching  bough  for  birds 
or  dreams  to  nest  in,  yet  Bertram  Weatherby 
hailed  it  joyfully,  ran  lightly  up  its  painted 
steps,  and  flung  wide  open  its  great  hall-door. 
A  flood  of  sound  gushed  forth — laughter,  bois- 
terous voices,  chatter  of  girls,  and  the  movement 
of  restless  feet.  Across  the  threshold  familiar 
faces  turned,  smiling,  familiar  voices  rose  from 
the  tumult,  his  shoulders  tingled  with  the  buffets 
of  familiar  hands. 

"Hello,  Bildad!" 

"Hello,  old  saw-horse!" 

"  Hello,  yourself !     Take  that ! ' ' 

But  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  these  savage 
greetings,  that  gentle  pressure  of  an  arm  about 
him,  and  Peter's  voice : 

"Hello,  old  man!" 

Bertram  would  whirl  at  that,  his  face  beam- 
15 


Miss    Primrose 

ing;  they  had  met  but  yesterday  —  it  was  as 
years  ago — "Hello,  old  man!  Look,  Peter!" 

But  a  gong  clanged.  Then  all  about  them  was 
the  hurry  and  tramp  of  feet  upon  the  stairs.  Lost 
in  the  precious  pages,  they  climbed  together,  arm 
in  arm,  drifting  upward  with  the  noisy  current 
and  through  the  doors  of  the  assembly-hall. 

"See,  Bertram — the  cricket-bats  on  the  wall!" 

"Yes;  and  the  High  Street — and  Sallie  Har- 
rowell's!" 

"And  the  doctor's  door!" 

Through  another  door  just  then  their  own 
masters  were  slowly  filing,  their  own  doctor  last 
and  weightiest  of  all,  his  smooth,  strong  face 
busy  with  some  chapel  reverie. 

"The  Professor's  like  Arnold,"  Bertram  told 
Peter  as  they  slipped  together  into  their  double 
seat. 

The  last  gong  clanged.  There  was  a  last  bang 
of  seats  turned  down,  a  last  clatter  of  books  upon 
the  desks,  the  last  belated,  breathless  ones  flut- 
tered down  aisles  with  reddened  cheeks,  while 
the  Professor  waited  with  the  Bible  open  in  his 
hand. 

"Let  us  read  this  morning  the  one-hundred  - 
and-seventh  Psalm — Psalm  one  hundred  seven." 

16 


Little    Rugby 

Peter  was  in  Rugby,  hidden  by  the  girl  in 
front.  The  boy  named  Bertram  fixed  his  gaze 
upon  the  desk  before  him.  Fair  and  smooth  it 
was — too  smooth  with  newness  to  please  a  Rug- 
beian  eye.  During  the  Psalm,  with  his  pocket- 
knife  he  cut  his  initials  in  the  yellow  wood,  and 
smiled  at  them.  In  days  to  come  other  boys 
would  sit  where  he  was  sitting,  and  gaze  and 
puzzle  over  that  rude  legacy,  and,  if  dreams 
came  true,  might  be  proud  enough  to  sprawl 
their  elbows  where  a  famous  man  had  lolled. 
They  might  even  hang  the  old  seat-top  upon  the 
wall,  that  all  who  ran  might  read  the  glory  of 
an  alma  mater  in  the  disobedience  of  a  mighty 
son.  Bertram  Weatherby  gazed  fondly  upon  his 
handiwork  and  closed  his  knife.  Time  and  Des- 
tiny must  do  the  rest. 

"  Let  us  pray." 

For  a  moment  the  Professor  stood  there  silent- 
ly with  lowered  eyes.  Bertram  and  Peter,  their 
shoulders  touching,  bowed  their  heads. 

"Our  Father  in  heaven  ..." 

There  was  no  altar — only  a  flat-topped  desk; 
no  stained -glass  windows — only  the  sunshine  on 
the  panes;  and  there  a  man's  voice,  deep  and 
trembling,  and  here  a  school-boy's  beating  heart, 

17 


Miss    Primrose 

"...  Help  us,  O  Father,  to  be  kinder  ..." 
How  you  loved  Peter,  the  Professor,  and  your 

ugly  Rugby  on  its  hill! 

"...  Lead  us,  0  Father,  to  a  nobler  youth  ..." 
Ay,  they  should  know  you  for  the  man  you 

were,  deep  down  in  your  hidden  soul. 

"...  Give  us,  0  Father,  courage  for  the  battle  ..." 
Wait  till  the  next  time  Murphy  bumped  you 

on  the  stairs! 

"  .  .  .  to  put  behind  us  all  indolence  of  flesh  and 

soul  .  .  ." 

You  would  study  hard  that  term. 
" .  .  .  all  heedlessness  and  disobedience  ..." 
You  would  keep  the  rules. 
"...  for  Jesus'  sake — Amen." 
"Peter,  did  you  see  the  sheep  .  .  ." 
"If  the  two  young  gentlemen  whispering  on 

the  back  seat — " 
You  flushed  angrily.     Other  fellows  whispered 

on  back  seats.    Why,  always,  did  the  whole  school 

turn  so  knowingly  to  you  ? 

Sitting,  one  study-hour,  in  the  assembly-hall, 
Bertram's  eyes  wandered  to  the  top  of  the  Com- 
mentaries, strayed  over  the  book  to  the  braids  of 
the  Potter  girl  beyond,  and  on  to  the  long, 

18 


Little    Rugby 

brown  benches.  The  hum  of  recitations  there, 
whispering  behind  him,  giggling  half  suppressed, 
and  the  sharp  rat-tat  of  the  teacher's  warning 
pencil  came  to  him  vaguely  as  in  a  dream. 
Through  the  tall  windows  he  saw  the  spotless 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  bright-green,  swaying  tips 
of  the  maples,  and  the  flight  of  wings.  Out  there 
it  was  spring.  Two  more  months  of  Cassar — 
eight  more  dreary  weeks  of  legions  marching  and 
barbarians  bending  beneath  the  yoke  —  then 
summer  and  the  long  vacation,  knights  jousting 
in  the  orchard,  Indians  scalping  on  the  hill. 
Eight  weeks — forty  days  of  school. 

Behind  a  sheltering  grammar  Peter  was  read- 
ing Hughes.  Over  his  shoulder  Bertram  could 
make  out  Tom,  just  come  to  Rugby,  watching  the 
football,  and  that  cool  Crab  Jones,  fresh  from  a 
scrimmage,  with  the  famous  straw  still  hanging 
from  his  teeth.  He  read  to  the  line  of  Peter's 
shoulder,  then  his  eyes  wandered  again  to  the 
school-room  window.  It  was  spring  in  Grassy 
Ford — it  was  spring  in  Warwickshire.  .  .  . 

"  If  the  young  gentleman  gazing  out  of  the 
window — " 

"  Tertia  vigilia  eruptionem  fecerunt  "  —  third 
watch  —  eruption  —  they  made.  Eruptionem  — 


Miss    Primrose 

eruption  —  pimples  —  break  out  —  sally.  They 
made  a  sally  at  the  third  watch.  Tertia  vigilia, 
ablative  case.  Ablative  of  what?  Ablative  of 
time.  Why  ablative  of  time?  Because  a  noun 
denoting  —  oh,  hang  their  eruptionem !  They 
were  dead  and  buried  long  ago.  Why  does  a 
fellow  learn  such  stuff  ?  Help  his  English — huh ! 
English  helps  his  Latin  —  that's  what.  How 
does  a  fellow  know  eruptionem?  Because  he's 
seen  pimples  —  that's  how.  No  sense  learn- 
ing Latin.  Dead  language  —  dead  as  a  door- 
nail. .  .  . 

Bertram  Weatherby  drew  a  picture  on  the 
margin  of  his  book — a  head,  shoulders,  two  arms, 
a  trunk — and  trousered  legs.  Carefully,  then,  he 
dotted  in  the  eyes — the  nose — the  mouth — the 
ears  beneath  the  tousled  hair.  He  rolled  the 
shirt-sleeves  to  the  elbows — drew  the  trousers- 
belt —  the  shoes.  Then  delicately,  smiling  to 
himself  the  while,  his  head  tilted,  his  eyes  squint- 
ed like  a  connoisseur,  he  drew  a  straw  pendent 
from  the  figure's  lips. 

"Peter,  who's  that?" 

"Sh!  not  so  loud.     She'll  hear  you." 

"Who's  that,  Peter?" 

,"Hm— Crab  Jones." 

20 


Little   Rugby 

"Now,  if  the  idle  young  gentleman  drawing 
pictures — " 

"  Tertia  vigilia  eruptionem  fecerunt" — oh,  they 
did,  did  they  ?  What  of  that  ?  .  .  . 

"Rugby,"  said  the  Professor,  who  had  a  way 
of  enlivening  his  classes  with  matters  of  the  outer 
world — "  Rugby,  as  I  have  heard  my  friend  Dr. 
Primrose  say,  who  was  a  Rugby  boy  himself,  is 
very  different  from  our  public  schools.  Only 
the  other  day  he  was  telling  me  of  a  school-mate, 
a  professor  now,  who  had  returned  to  England, 
and  who  had  spent  a  day  there  rambling  about 
the  ivied  buildings,  and  searching,  I  suppose, 
for  the  ancient  form  where  he  had  carved  his 
name.  Dr.  Primrose  told  me  how,  as  this  old 
friend  lingered  on  the  greensward  where  the 
boys  played  cricket,  as  he  himself  had  done  on 
that  very  spot  —  fine,  manly  fellows  in  their 
white  flannels  —  he  heard  not  a  single  oath  or 
vulgar  word  in  all  that  hour  he  loitered  there. 
One  young  player  called  to  another  who  ran  too 
languidly  after  the  ball.  'Aren't  you  playing, 
Brown?'  he  cried,  with  a  touch  of  irony  in  his 
voice." 

The  Professor  paused. 

91 


Miss    Primrose 

"  I  have  heard  stronger  language  on  our  play- 
ground here." 

He  paused  again,  adding,  impressively: 

"We  might  do  well  to  imitate  our  English 
cousins." 

"Just  what  /  say,"  whispered  young  Bertram 
Weatherby. 

"The  Prof.'s  all  right,"  Peter  whispered  back. 

And  so,  down -town,  after  school  that  day, 
behold ! — sitting  on  stools  at  Billy's  Palace  Lunch 
Counter,  in  the  Odd  Fellow's  Block — two  fine, 
manly  chaps,  not  in  white  cricket  flannels,  to 
be  sure,  but— 

"It's  some  like  Sallie  Harrowell's,"  one  mum- 
bled, joyously,  crunching  his  buttered  toast,  and 
the  other  nodded,  taking  his  swig  of  tea. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  they  looked  reverently 
upon  the  Professor  with  Rugbeian  eyes,  and  more 
admiringly  as  they  noted  new  likenesses  between 
him  and  the  great  head-master.  There  was  a 
certain  resemblance  of  glowing  countenance,  they 
told  themselves,  a  certain  ardor  of  voice,  as  they 
imagined,  and  over  all  a  sympathy  for  boys. 

"Well,"  he  would  say,  "stopping  them  as 
they  walked  together  arm  in  arm,  "if  you  seek 

22 


Little    Rugby 

Peter,  look  for  Bertram  —  eh?"  giving  their 
shoulders  a  bantering  shake  which  pleased  them 
greatly  as  they  sauntered  on. 

Listening  to  his  prayers  in  chapel,  hearing  at 
least  the  murmur  of  them  as  they  bowed  their 
heads,  their  minds  swayed  by  the  earnestness 
of  the  great  man's  voice  rather  than  by  the 
words  he  uttered,  they  felt  that  glow  which  comes 
sometimes  to  boys  who  read  and  dream.  Then 
Bertram  loved  the  touch  of  Peter's  shoulder, 
and,  with  the  memory  of  another  doctor  and 
another  school-boy,  he  loved  his  Rugby,  little 
and  meagre  and  vineless  though  it  was  upon  its 
threadbare  hill.  When  he  had  left  it  he  would 
return  some  day,  he  thought;  he  would  stand 
like  Tom  in  the  last  chapter;  he  would  sit  again 
at  his  old  brown  desk,  alone,  musing — missing 
his  mate,  and  finding  silence  where  happy  whis- 
perings and  secret  play  had  been — but  still  in  the 
pine  before  him  he  would  trace  the  letters  he 
had  cut,  and,  seeing  them,  he  would  be  again  the 
boy  who  cut  them  there. 

One  morning,  such  was  the  fervor  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's voice,  there  was  some  such  dream,  and 
when  it  ended,  prayer  and  dream  together — 

"After  these  exercises — 
23 


Miss   Primrose 

It  was  the  Professor's  voice. 

"  — I  wish  to  see  in  my  office  Bertram  Weath- 
erby  and  Peter  Wynne." 

They  heard  aghast.  The  whole  school  turned 
to  them.  The  Past  rose  dreadfully  before  their 
startled  vision,  yet  for  once,  it  seems,  they  could 
find  no  blemish  there. 

Down -stairs,  quaking,  they  slipped  together 
through  the  office  door.  The  Professor  had  not 
arrived.  They  took  their  stations  farthest  from 
his  chair,  and  leaned,  wondering,  for  support 
against  the  wall.  There  was  a  murmur  of  as- 
sembling classes  overhead,  a  hurry  of  belated 
feet,  and  then — that  well-known,  awful  tread. 
Peter  gulped ;  Bertram  shifted  his  feet,  his  heart 
thumping  against  his  ribs,  but  they  squared 
their  shoulders  as  the  door  flew  open  and  the 
Professor,  his  face  grave,  his  eyes  flashing, 
swooped  down  upon  them  in  the  little  room. 

"Bertram!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Peter!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  have  sent  for  you  to  answer  a  most  serious 
charge — most  serious,  indeed.  I  am  surprised. 
I  am  astonished.  Two  of  my  best  pupils,  two 

24 


Little   Rugby 

whom  I  have  praised,  not  once  but  many  times, 
here  in  this  very  room — two,  I  may  say,  of  my 
favorite  boys  found  violating,  wilfully  violating, 
the  rules  of  this  school.  I  could  not  believe  the 
charge  till  I  saw  the  evidence  with  my  own  eyes. 
I  could  not  believe  that  boys  like  you — boys  of 
good  families,  boys  with  minds  far  above  the  av- 
erage of  their  age,  would  despoil,  openly  despoil 
— yes,  I  may  say,  ruthlessly  despoil — the  prop- 
erty of  this  school,  descending — " 

"Why,  sir,  what  prop — " 

"Descending,"  cried  the  Professor,  "to  van- 
dalism— to  a  vandalism  which  I  have  again  and 
again  proscribed.  Over  and  over  I  have  said, 
and  within  your  hearing,  that  I  would  not  coun- 
tenance the  defacing  of  desks!" 

Bertram  Weatherby  glanced  furtively  at  Peter 
Wynne.  Peter  had  sighed. 

"Over  and  over,"  said  the  Professor,  "I  have 
told  you  that  they  were  not  your  property  or 
mine,  but  the  property  of  the  people  whose  rep- 
resentative I  am.  Yet  here  I  find  you  marring 
their  tops  with  jackrknives,  carving  great,  sprawl- 
ing letters — " 

"  But,  sir,  at  Rug—" 

"Great,  ugly  letters,  I  say,  sprawling  and 
25 


Miss    Primrose 

slashed  so  deeply  that  the  polished  surface  can 
never  be  restored." 

"At  Rug— " 

"What  will  visitors  say?  What  will  your 
parents  say  if  they  come,  as  parents  should,  to 
see  the  property  for  which  they  pay  a  tribute  to 
the  state?" 

"But,  sir,  at  Rug—" 

"  Bertram,  I  am  grieved.  I  am  grieved,  Peter, 
that  boys  reared  to  care  for  the  neatness  of  their 
persons  should  prove  so  slovenly  in  the  matter  of 
the  property  a  great  republic  intrusts  to  their  use 
and  care." 

"But,  sir,  at  Rug—" 

"I  am  astonished." 

"At  Rug—" 

"I  am  astounded." 

"At  Rug—" 

"Astounded,  I  repeat." 

"At  Rugby,  sir—" 

"Rugby!"  thundered  the  Professor.  "Rug- 
by! And  what  of  Rugby?" 

"Why,  at  Rugby,  sir—" 

"  And  what,  pray,  has  Rugby,  or  a  thousand 
Rugby s,  to  do  with  your  wilful  disobedience?" 

"They  cut,  sir—" 

26 


Little   Rugby 

"  Cut,  sir!"  repeated  the  Professor.    "  Cut,  sir!" 

"Yes,  sir — their  desks,  sir." 

"And  if  they  do— what  then?" 

"Well,  sir,  you  said,  you  know — "  . 

"Said?  What  did  I  say?  I  asked  you  to 
imitate  the  manliness  of  Rugby  cricketers.  I 
did  not  ask  you  to  carve  your  desks  like  the 
totem-poles  of  savage  tribes!" 

His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  dark,  his  words 
ground  fine. 

"Young  gentlemen,  I  will  have  you  know  that 
rules  must  be  obeyed.  I  will  have  you  know 
that  I  am  here  not  only  as  a  teacher,  but  as  a 
guardian  of  the  public  property  intrusted  to  my 
care.  Under  the  rules  which  I  am  placed  here 
to  enforce,  I  can  suspend  you  both — dismiss  you 
from  the  privileges  of  the  school.  This  once  I 
will  act  with  lenience.  This  once,  young  gen- 
tlemen, you  may  think  yourselves  lucky  to 
escape  with  demerit  marks,  but  if  I  hear  again 
of  conduct  so  unbecoming,  so  disgraceful,  of 
vandalism  so  ruthless  and  absurd,  I  shall  punish 
you  as  you  deserve.  Now  go." 

Softly  they  shut  the  office  door  behind  them. 
Arm  in  arm  they  went  together,  tiptoe,  down 
the  empty  hall. 

27 


Miss    Primrose 

"Well?" 

The  gloom  of  a  great  disappointment  was  in 
their  voices. 

"He's  not  an  Arnold,  after  all,"  they  said. 


Ill 

A    POET   OF    GRASSY    FORD 

[HE  lesser  Primrose  was  a  poet. 
It  was  believed  in  Grassy  Ford, 
though  the  grounds  seem  vague 
enough  now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  them,  that  he  published  widely 
in  the  literary  journals  of  the  day.  Letitia  was 
seen  to  post  large  envelopes,  and  anon  to  draw 
large  envelopes  from  the  post-office  and  hasten 
home  with  them.  The  former  were  supposed 
to  contain  poems;  the  latter,  checks.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  I  never  saw  the  Primrose  name  in 
print  save  in  our  Grassy  Ford  Weekly  Gazette. 
There,  when  gossip  lagged,  you  would  find  it 
frequently  in  a  quiet  upper  corner,  set  "solid," 
under  the  caption  "Gems" — a  terse  distinction 
from  the  other  bright  matters  with  which  our 
journal  shone,  and  further  emphasized  by  the 
Gothic  capitals  set  in  a  scroll  of  stars.  Thus 
3  29 


Miss   Primrose 

modestly,  I  believe,  were  published  for  the  first 
time  —  and  I  fear  the  last  —  Dsf^id  Buckleton 
Primrose's  "Agamemnon,"  "Ode  to  Jupiter," 
"Ulysses's  Farewell,"  "Lines  on  Rereading 
Dante,"  "November:  an  Elegy  Written  in  the 
Autumn  of  Life,"  as  well  as  those  stirring  bugle- 
calls,  "To  Arms!"  "John  Brown,"  and  "The 
Guns  of  Sumter,"  and  those  souvenirs  of  more 
playful  tender  moods,  "To  a  Lady,"  "When  I 
was  a  Rugby  Lad,"  "Thanksgiving  Pies,"  and 
"Lines  Written  in  a  Young  Lady's  Album  on 
her  Fifteenth  Birthday."  Now  that  young  lady 
was  Letitia,  I  chance  to  know,  for  I  have  seen 
the  verses  in  her  school  -  girl  album,  a  little 
leathern  Christmas  thing  stamped  with  forget- 
me-nots  now  faded,  and  there  they  stand  just 
opposite  some  school-mate's  doggerel  of  "roses 
red  and  violets  blue  "  signed  Johnny  Gray.  The 
lines  begin,  I  remember: 

"Virtue  is  in  thy  modest  glance,  sweet  child," 

and  they  are  written  in  a  flourished,  old-fash- 
ioned hand.  These  and  every  other  line  her 
father  dreamed  there  in  his  chair  Letitia  treasures 
in  a  yellow  scrap-book  made  of  an  odd  volume 

30 


A    Poet    of    Grassy    Ford 

of  Rhode  Island  statutes  for  18 — .  There,  one 
by  one,  as  he  wrote  them,  or  cut  them  with 
trembling  fingers  from  the  fresh,  ink  -  scented 
Gazette — "Gems,"  scroll  and  all,  and  with  date 
attached — she  set  them  neatly  in  with  home- 
made paste,  pressing  flat  each  precious  flower  of 
his  muse  with  her  loving  fingers. 

Editor  Butters  used  to  tell  me  of  the  soft-eyed 
girl,  "with  virtue  in  her  modest  glance,"  slipping 
suddenly  into  his  print  -  shop,  preferably  after 
dusk  had  fallen,  and  of  the  well-known  envelope 
rising  from  some  sacred  folds,  he  never  quite 
knew  where,  to  be  laid  tremblingly  upon  his 
desk. 

"Something  from  father,  sir." 

It  was  a  faint  voice,  often  a  little  husky,  and 
then  a  smile,  a  bow,  and  she  had  fled. 

Editor  Nathaniel  Butters  had  a  weakness  of 
the  heart  for  all  tender  things  —  a  weakness 
"under  oath,"  however,  as  he  once  replied  when 
I  charged  him  with  it,  and  as  I  knew,  for  I  myself 
heard  him  one  summer  afternoon,  as  he  sat,  shirt- 
sleeved  and  pipe  in  mouth,  perched  on  a  stool, 
and  setting  type  hard  by  a  window  where  I 
stood  beneath  fishing  with  a  dogwood  wand. 

"The-oc-ri-tus!     Humpf!     Now,  who  in  thun- 


Miss    Primrose 

der  cares  a  tinker's  damn  for  Theocritus,  in 
Grassy  Ford?  Some  old  Greek  god,  I  suppose, 
who  died  and  went  to  the  devil;  and  here's  a 
parson — a  Christian  parson  who  ought  to  know 
better — writing  an  ode  to  him,  for  Hank  Myers 
to  read,  and  Jim  Gowdy,  and  Old  Man  Flynn. 
And  I  don't  get  a  cent  for  it,  not  a  blank  cent, 
Sam — well,  he  doesn't  either,  for  that  matter — 
but  it's  all  tommy-rot,  and  here  I've  got  to  sweat, 
putting  in  capitals  where  they  don't  belong  and 
hopping  down  to  the  darned  old  dictionary  every 
five  minutes  to  see  if  he's  right — Sam  [turn- 
ing to  his  printer]  there's  some  folks  think  it's 
just  heaven  to  be  a  country  editor,  but  I'll 
be—" 

He  was  a  rough,  white-bearded,  little,  round, 
fat  man,  who  showed  me  type-lice,  I  remember 
(the  first  and  only  time  I  ever  saw  the  vermin), 
and  roared  when  I  wiped  my  eyes,  though  I've 
forgiven  him.  He  was  good  to  Letitia  in  an 
hour  of  need. 

Dr.  Primrose,  it  seems,  had  written  his  master- 
piece, a  solemn,  Dr.  Johnsonian  thing  which  he 
named  "Jerusalem,"  and  reaching,  so  old  man 
Butters  told  me  once,  chuckling,  "from  Friday 
evening  to  Saturday  night."  The  muse  had 

32 


A    Poet    of  Grassy   Ford 

granted  him  a  longer  candle  than  it  was  her  wont 
to  lend,  and  Letitia  trembled  for  that  sacred  fire. 

"Print  it,  child?  Of  course  he'll  print  it. 
It's  the  finest  thing  I  ever  did!" 

"True,  father,  but  its  length—" 

"Not  longer  than  Milton's  'Lycidas,'  my 
dear." 

"I  know,  but  —  he's  so  —  he  looks  so  fierce, 
father."  She  laughed  nervously. 

"Who?     Butters?" 

"Yes." 

"Tut!     Butters  has  brains  enough — " 

"  It  isn't  his  brains,"  replied  Letitia.  "  It's  his 
whiskers,  father." 

"Whiskers?" 

"Yes;  they  bristle  so." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  child.  Butters  has  brains 
enough  to  know  it  is  worth  the  printing.  Worth 
the  printing!"  he  cried,  with  irony.  "Yes,  even 
though  it  isn't  dialect." 

Dialect  was  then  in  vogue;  no  Grassy  Ford, 
however  small,  in  those  days,  but  had  its  Rhym- 
ing Robin  who  fondly  imagined  that  he  might  be 
another  Burns. 

"Dialect!"  the  doctor  repeated,  scornfully, 
his  eyes  roving  to  the  shabby  ancients  on  his 

33 


Miss    Primrose 

shelves.  "  Bring  me  Horace — that's  a  good  girl. 
No — yes."  His  hand  lingered  over  hers  that 
offered  him  the  book.  "Child,"  he  said,  looking 
her  keenly  in  the  eyes,  "  do  you  find  it  so  hard  to 
brave  that  lion?" 

"  Oh  no,  father.  I  didn't  mean  I  was  afraid, 
only  he's  so  —  woolly.  You  can  hardly  make 
out  his  eyes,  and  fire  sputters  through  his  old 
spectacles.  I  think  he  never  combs 'his  hair." 

"Does  he  ever  grumble  at  you?" 

"Oh  no" — and  here  she  laughed — "that  is,  I 
never  give  him  time;  I  run  away." 

The  old  poet  made  no  reply  to  her,  but  went 
on  holding  that  soft  little  hand  with  the  Horace 
in  it,  and  gazing  thoughtfully  at  his  daughter's 
face. 

"We  can  send  it  by  mail,"  he  said  at  last. 

That  roused  Letitia. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all !"  she  cried.  "  Why,  I'm  proud 
to  take  it,  father.  Mr.  Butters  isn't  so  dreadful 
— if  he  is  fuzzy.  I'm  sure  he'll  print  it.  There 
was  that  letter  from  Mr.  Banks  last  week,  a 
column  long,  on  carrots." 

He  smiled  dryly  at  her  over  his  opened  book. 

"If  only  my  'Jerusalem'  were  artichokes  in- 
stead of  Saracens!"  he  said. 

34 


A    Poet    of  Grassy   Ford 

The  fuzzy  one  was  in  his  lair,  proof-reading 
at  his  unkempt  desk.  The  floor  was  littered  at 
his  feet.  He  was  smoking  a  black  tobacco  in  a 
blacker  pipe.  He  wore  no  coat,  no  cuffs,  and 
his  sleeves  were — um;  it  does  not  matter.  He 
glared  ("  carnivorously,"  Letitia  tells  me)  at  the 
opening  door. 

"Evening,"  he  said,  and  waited;  but  the 
envelope  did  not  arise.  So  he  rose  himself, 
offering  a  seat  in  the  midst  of  his  clutter,  a 
plain,  pine,  rope-mended  chair,  from  which  he 
pawed  spiled  sheets  of  copy  and  tattered  ex- 
changes that  she  might  sit. 

"Looks  some  like  snow,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "I  called,  Mr.  But- 
ters—" 

She  paused  uncertainly.  It  was  her  own 
voice  that  had  disconcerted  her,  it  was  so  trem- 
ulous. 

"Another  poem,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  fondly 
imagining  that  he  had  softened  his  voice  to  a 
tone  of  gallantry,  but  succeeding  no  better  than 
might  be  expected  of  speech  so  hedged,  so  beset 
and  baffled,  so  veritably  bearded  in  its  earward 
flight. 

"You — you  mentioned  snow,  I  think,"  stam- 
35 


Miss    Primrose 

mered  Letitia.  He  had  frightened  her  away,  or 
she  may  have  drawn  back,  half -divining,  even  in 
embarrassment,  that  the  other,  the  more  round- 
about, the  snowy  path,  was  the  better  way  to 
approach  her  theme. 

"Snow  and  east  winds  are  the  predictions,  I 
believe,  Miss  Primrose." 

"I  dread  the  winter — don't  you?"  she  vent- 
ured. 

"No,"  he  replied.     "I  like  it." 

"That's  because  you  are— 

"  Because  I'm  so  fat,  you  mean." 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Butters,  I  didn't  even  think  of 
that;  I  meant  so — 

And  then  —  heavens!  —  it  flashed  across  her 
that  she  had  meant  "  woolly  " !  To  save  her  soul 
she  could  think  of  no  synonyme.  Her  cheeks 
turned  red. 

"I  meant — why,  of  course,  I  meant — you're 
so  well  prepared." 

"Well  prepared,"  he  grumbled. 

"Why,  yes,  you — men  can  wear  beards,  you 
know." 

"Egad!  you're  right,"  he  roared.  "You're 
right,  Miss  Primrose.  I  am  well  mufflered,  that's 
a  fact." 

36 


A   Poet    of  Grassy   Ford 

"But,  really,  it  must  be  a  great  assistance, 
Mr.  Butters." 

"Oh  yes;  it  is — and  it  saves  neckties." 

And  this,  mark  you,  was  the  way  to  Poetry! 
Poor  Letitia,  with  the  manuscript  hidden  be- 
neath her  cloak,  was  all  astray.  The  image  of 
the  poet  with  Horace  in  his  lap  rose  before  her 
and  rebuked  her.  She  was  tempted  to  disclose 
her  mission,  dutifully,  there  and  then. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Butters?"  she  inquired  instead. 

"About  as  well  as  common,  which  is  to  say, 
poorly — very  poorly,  thank  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

Editor  Butters  seemed  downcast. 

"  She's  tried  everything,"  he  said.  "  Even  had 
a  pocket  made  in  her  gown  to  hold  a  potato  and 
a  horse  -  chestnut  —  but  this  rheumatism  does 
beat  all,  I  tell  you.  How's  the  old  gentleman?" 

"The  doctor  says  he  will  never  walk." 

"Yes,  so  I  heard,"  muttered  the  editor.  " It's 
a  damned  shame." 

He  was  fumbling  with  his  proofs  and  did  not 
see  her  face — yet,  after  all,  she  could  feel  the 
sympathy  even  in  his  rudeness. 

"Still  hatching  poems,  I  suppose?" 

Her  heart,  which  had  warmed  even  as  her 
37 


Miss    Primrose 

cheeks  had  colored  at  his  other  words,  grew  cold 
at  these.  What  manner  of  toil  it  was  that 
brought  forth  things  so  pure  and  beautiful  in 
her  sight,  what  labor  of  love  and  travail  of  spirit 
it  was  to  him,  she  alone  would  ever  know  who 
watched  beside  him,  seeing  his  life  thus  ebbing, 
dream  by  dream.  She  sat  silent,  crumpling 
those  precious  pages  in  her  hands. 

"Well,"  Butters  went  on,  gruffly,  clearing  his 
throat,  "he's  a  good  hand  at  it."  He  was  not 
looking  at  Letitia,  but  kept  his  eyes  upon  a  ring 
of  keys  with  which  he  played  nervously;  and 
now  when  he  spoke  it  was  more  spasmodically, 
as  if  reluctant  to  broach  some  matter  for  which, 
however,  he  felt  the  time  had  come.  "Yes,  he's 
a  good  hand  at  it.  Used  to  be  even  better  than 
he  is  now — but  that's  natural.  I  wish,  though— 
you'd  just  suggest  when  it  comes  handy — just  in 
a  quiet  sort  of  way,  you  know — some  day  when 
you  get  the  chance — that  he's  getting  just  a 
leetle  bit — you  can  say  it  better  than  I  can  — 
but  I  mean  long-winded  for  the  Gazette.  It's 
natural,  of  course,  but  you  see — you  see,  Miss 
Primrose,  if  we  print  one  long-winded  piece,  you 
know — you  can  see  for  yourself — why,  every 
other  poet  in  Grassy  Ford  starts  firing  epics  at 

38 


A    Poet    of  Grassy   Ford 

us,  which  is  natural,  of  course,  but — hard  on 
me.  And  if  I  refuse  'em,  why,  then,  they  just 
naturally  up  and  say,  'Well,  you  printed  Prim- 
rose's; why  not  mine?'  and  there  they  have  you 
—there  they  have  you  right  by  the — yes,  sir, 
there  they  have  you;  and  there's  the  devil  to 
pay.  Like  as  not  they  get  mad  then  and  stop 
their  papers,  which  they  don't  pay  for  —  and 
that's  natural,  too,  only  it  causes  feeling  and 
doesn't  do  me  any  good,  or  your  father  either." 

"But,  Mr.  Butters,  you  printed  Mr.  Banks's 
letter  on  carrots,  and  that  was — " 

The  editor  fairly  leaped  in  his  chair. 

"There,  you  have  it!"  he  cried.  "Just  what 
I  said!  There's  that  confounded  letter  of  Jim 
Banks's,  column-long  on  carrots,  a-staring  me 
in  the  face  from  now  till  kingdom  come  when 
any  other  idiot  wants  to  print  something  a  col- 
umn long.  Just  what  I  say,  Miss  Primrose ;  but 
you  must  remember  that  the  readers  of  the 
Gazette  do  raise  carrots,  and  they  don't  raise — 
well,  now,  for  instance,  and  not  to  be  mean  or 
personal  at  all,  Miss  Primrose — not  at  all — they 
don't  raise  Agamemnons  or  Theocrituses.  I 
suppose  I  should  say  Theocriti — singular,  The- 
ocritus; plural,  Theocriti.  No,  sir,  they  don't 

39 


Miss    Primrose 

raise  Theocriti — which  is  natural,  of  course,  and 
reminds  me — while  we  are  on  the  subject — re- 
minds me,  Miss  Primrose,  that  I've  been  think- 
ing— or  wondering — in  fact,  I've  been  going  to 
ask  you  for  some  time  back,  only  I  never  just 
got  the  chance — ask  you  if  you  wouldn't — just 
kind  of  speak  to  your  father,  to  kind  of  induce 
him,  you  know,  to — to  write  on — about — well, 
about  livelier  things.  You  see,  Miss  Primrose, 
it's  natural,  of  course,  for  scholars  to  write  about 
things  that  are  dead  and  gone.  They  wouldn't 
be  scholars  if  they  wrote  what  other  people  knew 
about.  That's  only  natural.  Still  —  still,  Miss 
Primrose,  if  the  old  gentleman  could  just  give 
us  a  poem  or  two  on  the — well,  the  issues  of  the 
day,  you  know — oh,  he's  a  good  writer,  Miss 
Primrose!  Mind,  I'm  not  saying  a  word — not  a 
word  —  against  that.  I'd  be  the  last—  Good 
God,  what's  the  matter,  girl!  What  have  I 
done?  Oh,  I  say  now,  that's  too  bad — that's 
too  bad,  girlie.  Come,  don't  do  that — don't— 
Why,  if  I'd  a-known— " 

Letitia,  "Jerusalem"  crushed  in  her  right 
hand,  had  buried  her  face  among  the  proof- 
sheets  on  his  desk.  Woolier  than  ever  in  his 
bewilderment,  the  editor  rose — sat — rose  again — 

40 


A   Poet   of  Grassy   Ford 

patted  gingerly  (he  had  never  had  a  daughter), 
patted  Letitia's  shaking  shoulders  and  strove 
to  soothe  her  with  the  only  words  at  his  com- 
mand: "Oh,  now,  I  say— I— why,  say,  if  I'd 
a-known" — till  Letitia  raised  her  dripping  face. 

"You  m-mustn't  mind,  Mr.  B-Butters,"  she 
said,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  Why,  say,  Miss  Primrose,  if  I'd  a-dreamed — " 

"It's  all  my  f-fault,  Mr.  B-Butters." 

"Damn  it,  no!  It's  mine.  It's  mine,  I  tell 
you.  I  might  a-known  you'd  think  I  was  criti- 
cising your  father." 

"Oh,  it's  not  that  exactly,  Mr.  Butters,  but 
you  see — " 

She  put  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes  and  smoothed 
the  manuscript. 

"  Egad !  I  see ;  you  had  one  of  the  old  gentle- 
man's— " 

Letitia  nodded. 

"Egad!"  he  cried  again.  "Let's  see,  Miss 
Primrose." 

"Oh,  there  isn't  the  slightest  use,"  she  said. 
"It's  too  long,  Mr.  Butters." 

"No,  no.     Let's  have  a  look  at  it." 

"No,"  she  answered.  "No,  it's  altogether  too 
long,  Mr.  Butters." 

41 


Miss    Primrose 

"But  let's  have  a  look  at  it." 

She  hesitated.  His  hand  was  waiting ;  but  she 
shook  her  head. 

"No.  It's  the  longest  poem  he  ever  wrote, 
Mr.  Butters.  It's  his  masterpiece." 

"By  George!  let's  see  it,  then.     Let's  see  it." 

"Why,  it's  as  long,  Mr.  Butters — it's  as  long 
as  '  Lycidas. ' ' 

"  Long  as— hm !"  he  replied.  "  Still— still,  Miss 
Primrose,"  he  added,  cheerfully,  "that  isn't  so 
long  when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 

"But  that's  not  all,"  Letitia  said.  "It's 
about — it's  called — oh,  you'll  never  print  it,  Mr. 
Butters!" 

She  rose  with  the  poem  in  her  hand. 

"Print  it!"  cried  Butters.  "Why,  of  course 
I'll  print  it.  I'll  print  it  if  every  cussed  poet  in 
Grassy—" 

"Oh,  will  you,  Mr.  Butters?" 

"Will  I?     Of  course  I  will." 

He  took  it  from  her  unresisting  fingers. 

"  Je-ru-sa-lem!"  he  cried,  fluttering  the  twenty 
pages. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's — that's  the  name  of 
it,  Mr.  Butters,"  and  straightway  set  herself  to 
rights  again. 

42 


IV 

THE    SEVENTH    SLICE 

T  was  the  editor  himself  who  told 
me  the  story  years  afterwards — 
Butters  of  "The  Pide  Bull,"  as  he 
ever  afterwards  called  his  shop,  for 
in  her  gratitude  Letitia  had  pointed 
out  to  him  how  natural  it  was  that  he  of  all  men 
should  be  the  patron  of  poets,  since  beyond  a 
doubt,  she  averred,  he  was  descended  from  that 
very  Nathaniel  Butter  for  whom  was  printed 
the  first  quarto  edition  of  King  Lear.  Indeed, 
with  the  proofs  of  "Jerusalem"  she  brought  him 
the  doctor's  Shakespeare,  and  showed  him  in 
the  preface  to  the  tragedy  the  record  of  an  an- 
tique title-page  bearing  these  very  words: 

"  Printed  for  Nathaniel  Butter,  and  are 
to  be  fold  at  his  {hop  in  Paul's  Church- 
yard at  the  figne  of  the  Pide  Bull  neere 
St.  Auftin's  Gate,  1608." 

43 


Miss    Primrose 

"Egad!"  said  Butters,  "I  never  heard  that 
before.  Well,  well,  well,  well." 

"  I  think  there  is  no  doubt,  Mr.  Butters,"  said 
Letitia,  "that  he  was  your  ancestor." 

"You  don't  say  so,"  mumbled  the  delighted 
editor.  "  Shouldn't  wonder.  Shouldn't  wonder 
now  at  all.  I  believe  there  was  an  's'  tacked 
on  our  name,  some  time  or  other,  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  and  printer's  ink  always  did 
run  in  the  Butters  blood,  by  George!" 

He  even  meditated  hanging  up  a  sign  with  a 
pied  bull  upon  it — or  so  he  said — but  rejected 
the  plan  as  too  Old  English  for  Grassy  Ford. 
He  never  ceased,  however,  to  refer  to  "my  old 
cousin  —  Shakespeare's  publisher,  you  know," 
and  in  the  occasional  dramatic  criticisms  that 
embellished  the  columns  of  the  Gazette,  all  plays 
presented  at  our  Grand  Opera- House  in  the  Odd 
Fellow's  Block  were  compared,  somehow,  willy- 
nilly,  to  King  Lear. 

Butters  of  "  The  Pide  Bull,"  I  say,  first  told  me 
how  that  young  Crusader  with  the  tear-wet  face 
had  delivered  "Jerusalem,"  saving  it  from  the 
stern  fate  which  had  awaited  it  and  setting  it 
proudly  among  the  immortal  "Gems."  Then  I 
sought  Letitia,  whose  briefer,  more  reluctant 

44 


The   Seventh   Slice 

version  filled  in  wide  chinks  in  the  Butters  narra- 
tive, while  my  knowledge  of  them  both,  of  their 
modesty  and  their  tender-heartedness,  filled  in 
the  others,  making  the  tale  complete. 

I  was  too  young  when  the  poet  wrote  his 
masterpiece  to  know  or  care  about  it,  or  how  it 
found  its  way  to  the  wondering  world  of  Grassy 
Ford — nay,  to  the  whole  round  world  as  well, 
"two  hemispheres,"  as  old  man  Butters  used  to 
remind  me  with  offended  pride  in  his  voice, 
which  had  grown  gruffer  with  his  years.  Did 
he  not  send  Gazettes  weekly,  he  would  ask,  to 
Mrs.  Ann  Bowers's  eldest  son,  a  Methodist  mis- 
sionary in  the  Congo  wilds,  and  to  "  that  woman 
in  Asia"?  He  referred  to  a  Grassy  Ford  belle 
of  other  days  who  had  married  a  tea-merchant 
and  lived  in  Chong-Chong. 

Who  knows  what  befell  the  edition  of  that 
memorable  Gazette  which  contained  "  Jerusalem," 
set  solid,  a  mighty  column  of  Alexandrine  lines? 
One  summer's  afternoon,  tramping  in  an  Adiron- 
dack wilderness,  I  came  by  chance  upon  the 
blackened  ashes  of  a  fire,  and  sitting  meditative- 
ly upon  a  near-by  log,  poking  the  leaf-strewn 
earth  with  my  stick,  I  unearthed  a  yellow,  half- 
burned  corner  of  an  old  newspaper,  and,  idly 
4  45 


Miss    Primrose 

lifting  it  to  read,  found  it  a  fragment  of  some 
Australian  Times.  Still  more  recently,  when  my 
aunt  Matilda,  waxing  wroth  at  the  settling  floors 
of  her  witch-colonial  house  in  Bedfordtown,  had 
them  torn  up  to  lay  down  new  ones,  the  carpen- 
ters unearthed  an  old  rat's  nest  built  partially 
of  a  New  York  Tribune  with  despatches  from 
the  field  of  Gettysburg. 

"Sneer  not  at  the  power  of  the  press,"  old 
man  Butters  used  to  say,  stuffing  the  bowl  of  his 
black  pipe  from  my  tobacco-jar  and  casting  the 
match  into  my  wife's  card-tray.  "  Who  knows, 
my  boy?  Davy  Primrose's  'Jerusalem'  may 
turn  up  yet." 

It  is  something  to  ponder  now  how  all  those 
years  that  I  played  away,  Letitia,  of  whom  I 
thought  then  only  as  the  young  lady  who  lived 
next  door  and  occasional  confidante  of  my  idle 
hours,  was  slaving  with  pretty  hands  and  puz- 
zling her  fair  young  mind  to  bring  both  ends 
together  in  decent  comfort  for  that  poor  de- 
pendent one.  Yet  she  does  not  sigh,  this  gray 
Letitia  among  the  petunias,  when  she  talks  of 
those  by-gone  days,  but  is  always  smiling  back 
with  me  some  happy  memory. 

"You  were  the  funniest  boy,  Bertram,"  she 
46 


The   Seventh   Slice 

tells  me,  "  always  making  believe  that  it  was  old 
England  in  Grassy  Ford,  and  that  you  were 
Robin  Hood  or  Lord  Somebody  or  Earl  Some- 
body Else.  How  father  used  to  laugh  at  you !  He 
said  it  was  a  pity  you  would  never  be  knighted, 
and  once  he  drew  for  you  your  escutcheon — - 
you  don't  remember  ?  Well,  it  had  three  books 
upon  it — Tom  Brown's  School-days,  Tales  of  a 
Grandfather,  and  the  Morte  d' Arthur  " 

Then  I  remind  her  that  Robin  Saxeholm  was 
half  to  blame  for  my  early  failure  as  an  Amer- 
ican. He  was  a  Devonshire  lad;  he  had  been  a 
Harrow  boy,  and  was  a  Cambridge  man  when 
he  came,  one  summer  of  my  boyhood,  to  Grassy 
Ford  to  visit  the  Primroses.  His  father  had 
been  the  doctor's  dearest  friend  when  they  were 
boys  together  in  Devonshire,  and  when  young 
Robin's  five-feet-eleven  filled  up  the  poet's  door- 
way, Letitia  tells  me,  the  tears  ran  down  the 
doctor's  cheeks  and  he  held  out  both  his  arms 
to  him: 

"Robin  Saxeholm! — you  young  Devon  oak, 
you — tell  me,  does  the  Dart  still  run?" 

"He  does,  sir!"  cried  the  young  Englishman, 
speaking,  Letitia  says,  quite  in  the  Devon  man- 
ner, for  those  who  dwell  upon  the  banks  of  that 

47 


Miss    Primrose 

famous  river  find,  it  seems,  something  too  hu- 
man in  its  temper  and  changeful  moods  to  speak 
of  it  in  the  neuter  way. 

They  sat  an  hour  together,  the  poet  and  his 
old  friend's  son,  before  Letitia  could  show 
the  guest  to  the  room  she  had  prepared  for 
him. 

That  was  a  summer! 

Robin  taught  me  a  kind  of  back-yard,  two- 
old-cat  cricket  with  a  bat  fashioned  by  his  own 
big  hands.  Sometimes  Letitia  joined  us,  and 
the  doctor  watched  us  from  his  chair  rolled  out 
upon  the  garden  walk,  applauding  each  mighty 
play  decorously,  in  the  English  fashion,  with 
clapping  hands.  Robin  Goodfellow,  the  doctor 
called  our  captain,  "  though  a  precious  large  one, 
I'll  be  bound,"  he  said.  Letitia  called  him  Mr. 
Saxeholm,  first — then  Mr.  Robin,  and  some- 
times, laughingly,  Mr.  Bobbin — then  Robin.  I 
called  him  Mr.  Bob. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing  then  and 
there:  I  should  be  happier  when  I  grew  old 
enough  to  wear  white  cricket  flannels  and  a 
white  hat  like  Mr.  Bob's,  and  I  hoped,  and 
prayed  too  on  my  knees,  that  my  skin  would  be 
as  clear  and  pinkish — yes,  and  my  hair  as  red. 

48 


The  Seventh    Slice 

Alas!  I  had  begun  all  wrong:  I  was  a  little  beast 
of  a  brunette. 

I  taught  Mr.  Bob  baseball,  showed  him  each 
hill  and  dale,  each  whimpering  brook  of  Grassy 
Ford,  and  fished  with  him  among  the  lilies  in 
shady  pools  while  he  smoked  his  pipe  and  told 
me  of  Cambridge  and  Harrow-on-the-Hill  and 
the  vales  of  Devon.  He  had  lived  once,  so  he 
told  me,  next  door  to  a  castle,  though  it  did  not 
resemble  Warwick  or  Kenilworth  in  the  least. 

"It  was  just  a  cah-sle"  said  Mr.  Bob,  in  his 
funny  way. 

"With  a  moat,  Mr.  Bob?" 

"Oh  yes,  a  moat,  I  dare  say — but  dry,  you 
know." 

"And  a  drawbridge,  Mr.  Bob?" 

"Well,  no — not  precisely;  at  any  rate,  you 
couldn't  draw  it  up." 

"But  a  portcullis,  I'll  bet,  Mr.  Bob?" 

"Well — I  cahn't  say  as  to  that,  I'm  sure, 
Bertram." 

He  had  lived  next  door  to  a  castle,  mind  you, 
and  did  not  know  if  it  had  a  portcullis !  He  had 
never  even  looked  to  see!  He  had  never  even 
asked!  Still,  Mr.  Bob  was  a  languid  fellow, 
Bertram  Weatherby  was  bound  to  admit,  even 

49 


Miss    Primrose 

in  speech,  and  drawled  out  the  oddest  words 
sometimes,  talking  of  "trams"  and  "guards" 
and  "luggage-vans,"  which  did  seem  queer  in  a 
college  man,  though  Bertram  remembered  he 
was  not  a  Senior  and  doubtless  would  improve 
his  English  in  due  time.  Indeed,  he  helped  him, 
according  to  his  light,  and  the  credit  is  the  boy's 
that  the  young  Britisher,  after  a  single  summer 
in  Grassy  Ford,  could  write  from  Cambridge  to 
Letitia :  "  I  guess  I  will  never  forget  the  folks  in 
Grassy  Ford!  Remember  me  to  the  little  kid, 
my  quondam  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend." 

Robin  was  always  pleasant  with  Letitia,  help- 
ing her  with  her  housework,  I  remember,  wiping 
her  dishes  for  her,  tending  her  fires,  and  weeding 
her  kitchen-garden.  There  never  had  been  s"o 
many  holidays,  she  declared,  gratefully,  and  she 
used  to  marvel  that  he  had  come  so  far,  all  that 
watery  way  from  Devon,  yet  could  be  content 
with  such  poor  fare  and  such  humble  work  and 
quiet  pleasures  in  an  alien  land  so  full  of  won- 
ders. Yet  it  must  have  been  cheerful  loitering, 
for  he  stayed  on,  week  after  week.  He  had 
come  intending,  he  confessed,  to  "stop"  but 
one,  but  somehow  had  small  hankering  there- 
after to  see,  he  said,  "what  is  left  of  America, 

5° 


The    Seventh    Slice 

liking  your  Grassy  Fordshire,  Bertram,  so  very 
well."  Perhaps  secretly  he  was  touched  by  the 
obvious  penury  and  helplessness  of  his  father's 
friend,  as  well  as  by  the  daughter's  loving  and 
heavy  service,  so  that  he  stayed  on  but  to  aid 
them  in  the  only  unobtrusive  way,  overpaying 
them,  Letitia  says,  for  what  he  whimsically 
called  "tuition  in  the  quiet  life,"  as  he  gently 
closed  her  fingers  over  the  money  which  she 
blushed  to  take.  Then  he  would  quote  for  her 
those  lines  from  Pope : 

"...  Quiet  by  day, 
Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  doth  please 
With  meditation." 

He  read  Greek  and  Latin  with  Dr.  Primrose, 
and  many  an  argument  of  ancient  loves  and 
wars  I  listened  to,  knowing  by  the  keen-edged 
feeling  of  my  teeth  when  the  fray  was  over  that 
my  mouth  had  been  wide  open  all  the  while. 
Letitia,  too,  could  hear  from  the  kitchen  where 
she  made  her  pies,  for  it  was  a  conversational 
little  house,  just  big  enough  for  a  tete-a-tete,  as 
Dr.  Primrose  used  to  say,  and  when  debate  waxed 
high,  she  would  stand  sometimes  in  the  kitchen 


Miss    Primrose 

doorway,  in  her  gingham  apron,  wiping  the  same 
cup  twenty  times. 

"Young  Devon  oak,"  the  doctor  called  him, 
sometimes  half  vexed  to  find  how  ribbed  and 
knotty  the  young  tree  was. 

"We'll  look  it  up,  then,"  he  would  cry,  "but 
I  know  I'm  right." 

"You'll  find  you  are  mistaken,  I  think,  doc- 
tor." 

"Well,  now,  we'll  see.  We-'ll  see.  You're 
fresh  from  the  schools  and  I'm  a  bit  rusty,  I'll 
confess,  but  I'm  sure  I'm — here,  now — hm,  let's 
see — why,  can  that  be  possible? — I  didn't  think 
so,  but — by  George!  you're  right.  You're  right, 
sir.  You're  right,  my  boy." 

He  said  it  so  sadly  sometimes  and  shut  the 
book  with  an  air  so  beaten,  lying  back  feebly  in 
his  chair,  that  Robin,  Letitia  says,  would  lead 
the  talk  into  other  channels,  merely  to  contend 
for  ground  he  knew  he  could  never  hold,  to  let 
the  doctor  win.  It  was  fine  to  see  him  then, 
the  roused  old  gentleman,  his  eyes  shining,  sitting 
bolt  upright  in  his  chair  waving  away  the  young 
man's  arguments  with  his  feeble  hand. 

"I  think  you  are  right,  doctor,  after  all.  I 
see  it  now.  You  make  it  clear  to  me.  Yes, 

52 


The    Seventh    Slice 

sir,  I'm  groggy.  I'm  down,  sir.  Count  me 
out." 

And  you  should  have  seen  the  poet  then  in  his 
triumph,  if  victory  so  gracious  may  be  called 
by  such  a  name.  There  was  no  passing  under 
the  yoke — no,  no!  He  would  gaze  far  out  of 
the  open  window,  literally  overlooking  his  van- 
quished foe,  and  delicately  conveying  thus  a 
hint  that  it  was  of  no  utter  consequence  which 
had  conquered;  and  so  smoothing  the  young 
man's  rout,  he  would  fall  to  expatiating,  sooth- 
ingly, remarking  how  natural  it  was  to  go  astray 
on  a  point  so  difficult,  so  many-sided,  so  subtle 
and  profound — in  short,  speaking  so  eloquently 
for  his  prone  antagonist,  expounding  so  many 
likely  arguments  in  defence  of  that  lost  cause, 
one  listening  would  wonder  sometimes  who  had 
won. 

Evenings,  when  Letitia's  work  was  done,  she 
would  come  and  sit  with  us,  Robin  and  me,  upon 
the  steps.  There  in  the  summer  moonlight  we 
would  listen  to  his  tales,  lore  of  the  Dartmoor 
and  Exmoor  wilds,  until  my  heart  beat  strangely 
at  the  shadows  darkening  my  homeward  way 
when  the  clock  struck  ten.  Grape-vines,  I  noted 
then,  were  the  very  place  for  an  ambush  by  the 

53 


Miss    Primrose 

Doones,  of  whom  they  talked  so  much,  Robin 
and  Letitia!  Later,  when  the  grapes  were  ripe, 
a  Doone  could  regale  himself,  leisurely  waiting  to 
step  out,  giant-wise,  upon  his  prey !  There  were 
innumerable  suspicious  rustlings  as  I  passed,  and 
in  particular  a  certain  strange — a  dreadful  brush- 
ing sound  as  of  ghostly  wings  when  I  squeezed, 
helpless,  through  the  worn  pickets! — and  then  I 
would  strike  out  manfully  across  the  lawn. 

One  day  in  August — it  was  August,  I  know, 
for  it  was  my  birthday  and  Robin  had  given  me 
a  rod  and  line — we  took  Letitia  with  us  to  the 
top  of  Sun  Dial,  a  bald-crowned  hill  from  which 
you  see  all  Grassy  Fordshire  green  and  golden  at 
your  feet.  Leaving  the  village,  we  crossed  a 
brook  by  a  ford  of  stones  and  plunged  at  once 
into  the  wild  wood,  forest  and  ancient  orchard 
that  clothed  the  slope.  I  was  leading — to  show 
the  way.  Robin  followed  with  Letitia — to  help 
her  over  the  rocks  and  brambles  and  steeper 
places  of  the  long  ascent,  which  was  far  more 
arduous  than  one  might  think,  looking  up  at  it 
from  the  town  below. 

I  strode  on  proudly,  threading  the  narrow 
hunter's  trail  I  knew  by  heart,  a  remnant  of  an 
old  wagon -lane  long  overgrown.  I  strode  on 

54 


The   Seventh    Slice 

swiftly,  I  remember,  breaking  the  cobwebs,  part- 
ing the  fragrant  tangle  that  beset  the  way — 
vines  below,  branches  above  me — keeping  in 
touch  the  while,  vocally,  when  the  thickets  inter- 
vened, with  the  pair  that  followed.  I  could  hear 
them  laughing  together  over  the  green  barriers 
which  closed  behind  me,  and  I  was  pleased  at 
their  troubles  among  the  briers.  I  had  led  them 
purposely  by  the  roughest  way.  Robin,  stalking 
across  the  ford,  had  made  himself  merry  with  my 
short  legs,  and  I  had  vowed  secretly  that  before 
the  day  was  out  he  should  feel  how  long  those 
legs  could  be. 

"I'll  show  you,  Mr.  Bob,"  I  muttered,  plung- 
ing through  the  brushwood,  and  setting  so  fast 
a  pace  it  was  no  great  while  before  I  realized 
how  faintly  their  voices  came  to  me. 

"Hello-o!"  I  cried. 

"H'lo-o!"  came  back  to  me,  but  from  so  far 
behind  me  I  deemed  it  wiser  to  stop  awhile, 
awaiting  their  approach. 

The  day  was  glorious,  but  quiet  for  a  boy. 
The  world  was  nodding  in  its  long,  midsummer 
nap,  and  no  birds  sang,  no  squirrels  chattered. 
I  looked  in  vain  for  one;  but  there  were  ber- 
ries and  the  mottled  fruit  of  an  antique  ap- 

55 


Miss    Primrose 

pie -tree  to  while  the  time  away  —  and  so  I 
waited. 

I  remember  chuckling  as  I  nibbled  there,  won- 
dering what  Mr.  Bob  would  say  of  those  short 
legs  which  had  outstripped  him.  I  fancied  him 
coming  up  red  and  breathless  to  find  me  calmly 
eating  and  whistling  between  bites  —  and  I  did 
whistle  when  I  thought  them  near  enough.  I 
whistled  "Dixie"  till  I  lost  the  pucker,  thinking 
what  fun  it  was,  and  tried  again,  but  could  not 
keep  the  tune  for  chuckling.  And  so  I  waited— 
and  then  I  listened — but  all  the  wood  was  still. 

"Hello-o!"  I  cried. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Hello-o!"  I  called  again,  but  still  heard 
nothing  in  reply  save  my  own  echo. 

"Hello-o!"  I  shouted.  "Hello-o!"  till  the 
wood  rang,  and  then  they  answered: 

"H'lo-o!"  but  as  faint  and  distant  as  before. 

They  had  lost  their  way ! 

"  Wait  /  "  I  shouted,  plunging  pell-mell  through 
the  bushes.  "Wait  where  you  are!  I'm  com- 
ing!" 

And  so,  hallooing  all  the  way,  while  Robin 
answered,  I  made  my  way  to  them — and  found 
them  resting  on  a  wall. 


The   Seventh   Slice 

"Hello,"  I  said. 

"Hello,"  said  Robin.  "We  aren't  mountain- 
goats,  you  know,  Bertram." 

I  grinned  gleefully. 

"  I  thought  my  legs  were  so  short?"  I  said. 

"And  so  they  are,"  he  replied,  calmly,  "but 
you  go  a  bit  too  fast,  my  lad — for  Letty." 

I  had  forgotten  Letitia!  Revenging  myself 
on  Robin,  it  was  she  alone  who  had  suffered, 
and  my  heart  smote  me  as  I  saw  how  pale  she 
was,  and  weary,  sitting  beside  him  on  the  wall. 
Yet  she  did  not  chide  me ;  she  said  nothing,  but 
sat  there  resting,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  wild- 
flower  which  she  plucked  to  pieces  in  her  hand. 

We  climbed  more  slowly  and  together  after 
that.  I  was  chagrined  and  angry  with  myself, 
and  a  little  jealous  that  Robin  Saxeholm,  friend 
of  but  a  summer-time,  should  teach  me  thought- 
fulness  of  dear  Letitia.  All  that  steep  ascent  I 
felt  a  strange  resentment  in  my  soul,  not  that 
Robin  was  so  kind  and  mindful  of  her  welfare, 
guiding  her  gently  to  where  the  slope  was  mild- 
est, but  that  it  was  not  I  who  helped  her  steps. 
I  feigned  indifference,  but  I  knew  each  time  he 
spoke  to  her  and  I  saw  how  trustingly  she  gave 
her  hand. 

57 


Miss    Primrose 

And  I  was  envious — yes,  I  confess  it — envious 
of  Robin  for  himself,  he  was  so  stalwart;  and 
besides,  his  coat  and  trousers  set  so  rarely! 
They  were  of  some  rough,  brownish,  Scotchy 
stuff,  and  interwoven  with  a  fine  red  stripe  just 
faintly  showing  through — oh,  wondrous  fetching! 
Such  ever  since  has  been  my  ideal  pattern, 
vaguely  in  mind  when  I  enter  tailor-shops,  but 
I  never  find  it.  It  was  woven,  I  suppose,  on 
some  by-gone  loom ;  perhaps  at  Thrums. 

Reaching  the  summit  and  drinking  in  the 
sweet,  clear,  skyey  airs,  with  Grassy  Fordshire 
smiling  from  all  its  hills  and  vales  for  miles  about 
us,  I  forgot  my  pique. 

"What  about  water?"  Letitia  asked. 

I  knew  a  spring. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Robin.  "Where  is  it,  Ber- 
tram?" 

"Oh  no,  you  won't!"  I  cried,  fiercely.  "That's 
my  work,  Mr.  Bob.  You're  not  the  only  one 
who  can  help  Letitia." 

He  looked  astonished  for  a  moment,  but 
laughed  good-naturedly  and  handed  me  his 
flask.  Letitia  smiled  at  me,  and  I  whistled 
"Dixie"  as  I  disappeared.  I  hurried  desper- 
ately till  I  lost  my  breath;  I  skinned  both 

58 


The    Seventh    Slice 

knees;  I  wellnigh  slipped  from  a  rocky  ledge, 
yet  with  all  my  haste  I  was  a  full  half  -  hour 
gone,  and  got  back  red  and  panting. 

They  had  waited  patiently.  Famished  as  they 
were,  neither  had  touched  a  single  mouthful. 
Letitia  said,  "Thank  you,  Bertram,"  and  hand- 
ed me  a  slice  of  the  bread  and  jam.  She  seemed 
wondrous  busy  in  our  service.  Robin  was  silent 
— and  I  guessed  why. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rough,"  I  said. 

"  Rough  ?"  he  asked.  "  When  were  you  rough, 
Bertie?" 

"About  the  water." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  upon  my 
shoulder.  "I  never  thought  of  it,  old  fellow," 
and  my  heart  smote  me  for  the  second  time 
that  day,  seeing  how  much  he  loved  me. 

Letitia,  weary  with  our  hard  climbing,  ate  so 
little  that  Robin  chided  her,  very  gently,  and  I 
tried  banter. 

"Wake  up!  This  is  a  picnic."  But  they  did 
not  rally,  so  I  sprang  up  restlessly,  crying,  "  It's 
not  like  our  other  good  times  at  all." 

"What!"  said  Robin,  striving  to  be  playful. 
"  Only  six  slices,  Bertram  ?  This  is  our  last  holi- 
day. Eat  another,  lad." 

59 


Miss    Primrose 

Then  I  understood  that  gloom  on  Sun  Dial :  he 
was  going  to  leave  us.  Boy  like,  I  had  taken  it 
for  granted,  I  suppose,  that  we  would  go  on 
climbing  and  fishing  and  playing  cricket  in 
Grassy  Ford  indefinitely.  He  was  to  go,  he 
said,  on  Monday. 

"  News  from  home,  Mr.  Bob  ?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Well,  no,  Bertie." 

"Then  why  not  stay?"  I  urged.  "Stay  till 
September." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Eat  one  more  slice  for  me,"  I  can  hear  him 
drawling.  "I'll  cut  it — and  a  jolly  fat  one  it 
shall  be,  Bertram — and  Letty  here,  she'll  spread 
it  for  you."  Here  Mr.  Bob  began  to  cut — well- 
nigh  a  quarter  of  the  loaf  he  made  it.  "  Lots  of 
the  jam,  Letty,"  he  said  to  her.  "And  you'll 
eat  it,  Bertram — and  we'll  call  it — we'll  call  it 
the  Covenant  of  the  Seventh  Slice — never  to 
forget  each  other.  Eh?  How's  that?" 

Now,  I  did  not  want  the  covenant  at  all,  but 
he  was  so  earnest;  and  besides,  I  was  afraid 
Letitia  might  think  that  I  refused  the  slice  be- 
cause of  the  tears  she  had  dropped  upon  it, 
spreading  the  jam. 

60 


V 

THE    HANDMAIDEN 

OBIN  gone,  I  saw  but  little  of 
Letitia,  I  was  so  busy,  I  suppose, 
with  youth,  and  she  with  age. 
The  poet's  lamp  had  burned  up 
bravely  all  that  summer-time,  its 
flame  renewed  by  Robin's  coming — or,  rather, 
it  was  the  brief  return  of  his  own  young  English 
manhood  which  he  lived  again  in  that  fine,  clean 
Devon  lad.  Robin  gone,  he  felt  more  keenly 
how  far  he  was  from  youth  and  Devonshire, 
what  a  long  journey  he  had  come  to  age  and 
helplessness,  and  his  feeble  life  burned  dimmer 
than  before. 

Two  or  three  years  slipped  by.  The  charm 
was  gone  which  had  drawn  me  daily  through  the 
hole  in  our  picket  -  fence.  Even  the  doctor's 
Rugby  tales  no  longer  held  me,  I  knew  them  so 
by  heart.  When  he  began  some  old  beginning, 
s  61 


Miss    Primrose 

my  mind  recited  so  much  more  glibly  than  his 
faltering  tongue,  I  ha.d  leaped  to  the  end  before 
he  reached  the  middle  of  his  story.  He  was 
given  now  to  wandering  in  his  narratives,  and 
while  he  droned  there  in  his  chair,  my  own 
mind  wandered  where  it  listed,  or  I  played  rest- 
lessly with  my  cap  and  tried  hard  not  to  yawn, 
longing  to  be  out-of-doors  again.  Many  a  time 
has  my  conscience  winced,  remembering  that 
eagerness  to  desert  one  who  had  been  so  kind  to 
me,  who  had  led  my  fancies  into  pure-aired  ways 
and  primrose  paths — a  little  too  English  and 
hawthorn-scented,  some  may  think,  for  a  good 
American,  but  we  meant  no  treason.  He,  before 
Robin,  had  given  my  mind  an  Old-World  bent 
never  to  be  altered.  Only  last  evening,  with 
Master  Shallow  and  a  certain  well-known  portly 
one  of  Windsor  fame,  I  drank  right  merrily  and 
ate  a  last  year's  pippin  with  a  dish  of  caraways 
in  an  orchard  of  ancient  Gloucestershire.  Be- 
fore me  as  I  write  there  hangs  a  drawing  of 
pretty  Sally  of  the  alley  and  the  song.  Be- 
tween the  poet  and  that  other  younger  Dev- 
onshire lad,  they  wellnigh  made  me  an  English 
boy. 

We  heard  from  Robin — rather,  Letitia  did. 
62 


The   Handmaiden 

He  never  wrote  to  me,  but  sent  me  his  love  in 
Letitia's  letters  and  a  book  from  London,  Lorna 
Doone,  for  the  Christmas  following  his  return. 
Letitia  told  me  of  him  now  and  then.  She  knew 
when  he  left  Cambridge  and  we  sent  him  a 
present — or,  rather,  Letitia  did — Essays  of  Em- 
erson, which  she  bought  with  money  that  could 
be  ill-spared,  and  she  wrote  an  inscription  in 
it,  "From  Grassy  Fordshire,  in  memory  of  the 
Seventh  Slice."  She  knew  when  he  went  back 
home  to  Devon,  and  then,  soon  afterwards,  I 
believe,  when  he  left  England  and  went  out  to 
India.  Now,  she  did  not  tell  me  that  wonderful 
piece  of  news  till  it  was  old  to  her,  which  was 
strange,  I  thought.  I  remember  my  surprise. 
I  had  been  wondering  where  Robin  was  and 
saying  to  her  that  he  must  be  in  London — per- 
haps in  Parliament! — making  his  way  upward 
in  the  world,  for  I  never  doubted  that  he  would 
be  an  earl  some  day. 

"Oh  no,"  Letitia  said,  when  I  mentioned 
London.  "He  is  in  India." 

"India!     Mr.  Bob  in  India?" 

"Yes.  He  went — why,  he  went  last  autumn! 
Didn't  you  know?" 

No,  I  did  not  know.  Why,  I  asked,  and  as 
63 


Miss    Primrose 

reproachfully  as  I  could  make  the  question — why 
had  she  never  told  me  ? 

She  must  have  forgotten,  she  replied,  penitent 
— there  were  so  many  things  to  remember. 

True,  I  argued,  but  she  ought  at  least  to  have 
charged  her  mind  with  what  was  to  me  such 
important  news.  Mr.  Bob  and  I  were  dear,  dear 
friends,  I  reminded  her.  He  had  gone  to  India, 
and  I  had  not  known ! 

She  knew  it,  she  said,  humbly.  She  would 
never  forgive  herself.  I  did  not  go  near  her  for 
days,  I  remember,  and  long  afterwards  her  of- 
fence still  rankled  in  my  mind.  Had  she  not 
spread  that  slice  on  Sun  Dial,  never  to  forget? 
When  next  I  saw  her  I  made  a  rebuking  point  of 
it,  asking  her  if  she  had  heard  from  Robin.  She 
shook  her  head.  Months  passed  and  no  letter 
came. 

"  We  don't  see  you  often  any  more,  Bertram," 
her  father  said  to  me  one  day. 

"No,"  I  stammered.     "I'm—" 

"Busy  studying,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir;  and  ball-games,"  I  replied. 

"How  do  you  get  on  with  your  Latin?"  he 
inquired,  feebly. 

"We're  still  in  Virgil,  sir." 
64 


The    Handmaiden 

"Ah,"  he  said,  but  without  a  trace  of  the  old 
vigor  the  classics  had  been  wont  to  rouse  in  him. 
"That's  good — won'erful  writer — up — " 

He  was  pointing  with  his  bony  forefinger. 

"Yes?"  I  answered,  wondering  what  he  meant 
to  say.  He  roused  himself,  and  pointed  again 
over  my  shoulder. 

"Up  there— on  the— s 'elf." 

He  was  so  ghastly  white  I  thought  him  dying 
and  called  Letitia. 

"  'S  all  right,  Bertram,"  he  reassured  me, 
patting  my  hand.  I  suppose  he  had  seen  the 
terror  in  my  face.  He  smiled  faintly.  "  'M  all 
right,  Bertram." 

Outside  the  apple-trees  were  blooming,  I 
remember,  and  he  lived,  somehow,  to  see  them 
bloom  again. 

My  conscience  winces,  as  I  say,  to  think  how 
I  twirled  my  cap  by  my  old  friend's  bedside, 
longing  to  be  gone;  yet  I  comfort  myself  with 
the  hope  that  he  did  not  note  my  eagerness,  or 
that  if  he  did  he  remembered  his  own  boyhood 
and  the  witchery  of  bat  and  ball.  Not  only 
was  the  poet's  life-lamp  waning,  not  only  was 
Letitia  burdened  with  increasing  cares,  fast 
aging  her,  the  mater  said,  but  I  was  a  child  no 

65 


Miss    Primrose 

longer;  a  youth,  now,  mindful  of  all  about  me, 
and  seeing  that  neighbor  household  with  new 
and  comprehending  eyes. 

The  very  house  grew  dismal  to  me.  The 
boughs  outside  were  creeping  closer  —  not  to 
shelter  it,  not  to  cool  it  and  make  a  breathing 
nook  for  a  lad  flushed  with  his  games  in  the  sum- 
mer sun.  It  was  damp  there;  the  air  seemed 
mouldy  under  the  lindens;  there  was  no  invita- 
tion in  the  unkempt  grass;  toads  hopped  from 
beneath  your  feet,  bird-songs  came  to  you,  but 
always,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me,  they  came  from 
distance,  from  the  yards  beyond. 

There  within,  across  that  foot- worn  threshold 
which  had  been  a  goal  for  me  in  former  years, 
there  was  now  a  —  not  a  poet  any  longer,  or 
Rugby  boy,  but  only  a  sick  old  man.  Upon  a 
table  at  his  side  his  goblets  stood,  covered  with 
saucers,  and  a  spoon  in  each.  His  drugs  were 
watery;  there  was  no  warmth  in  them,  no  spar- 
kle even  when  the  sun  came  straggling  in,  no 
wine  of  life  to  be  quaffed  thirstily — only  a  tepid, 
hourly  spoonful  to  be  feebly  sipped,  a  sop  to 
death. 

Even  with  windows  open  to  the  breeze  the  air 
seemed  stifling  to  the  lad  I  was.  The  sunlight 

66 


The    Handmaiden 

falling  on  the  faded  carpet  seemed  always  ebbing 
to  a  kind  of  shadow  of  a  glow.  The  clock,  that 
ugly  box  upon  the  shelf,  ticked  dreadfully  as  if 
it  never  would  strike  a  smiling  hour  again.  The 
china  ornaments  at  its  side  stood  ghastly  mute, 
and  hideous  flowers  —  /////  those  waxen  faces 
under  glass!  If  not  quite  dead,  why  were  they 
kept  so  long  a-dying  there?  Would  no  kind, 
sunny  soul  in  mercy  free  them  from  their  pallid 
misery  ?  I  was  a  Prince  of  Youth !  What  had 
I  to  do  with  tombs  ?  I  fled. 

Even  Letitia,  kind  as  ever  to  me,  seemed  al- 
ways busy  and  preoccupied — sweeping,  dusting, 
baking,  cleansing  those  everlasting  pots  and 
pans,  or  reading  to  her  father,  who  listened 
dreamily,  dozing  often,  but  always  waking  if 
she  stopped.  Content  to  have  her  at  his  side 
because  discontent  to  have  her  absent,  even  for 
the  little  while  her  duties  or  the  doctor's  orders 
led  her,  though  quite  unwillingly,  away.  Im- 
patience for  her  return  would  make  him  queru- 
lous, which  caused  her  tears,  not  for  its  failing 
consciousness  of  her  devotion,  but  for  its  warning 
to  her  of  his  gentle  spirit's  slow  decline  despite 
her  care. 

"Where  have  you  been  so  long,  Letitia?" 
67 


Miss    Primrose 

"So  long,  father?     Only  an  hour  gone." 

"Only  an  hour?  I  thought  you  would  never 
come." 

"  See,  father,  I've  brought  you  a  softer  pillow,"" 
she  would  say,  smiling  his  plaints  into  oblivion. 
It  was  the  smile  with  which  she  had  caught  the 
grape-thief  by  the  fence,  the  one  with  which 
she  had  charmed  a  Devonshire  lad,  now  gone 
three  years  and  more — the  tenderest  smile  I  ever 
saw,  save  one,  and  the  saddest,  though  not 
mournful,  it  was  so  genuine,  so  gentle,  and  so 
unselfish,  and  her  eyes  shone  lovingly  the  while. 
Its  sadness,  as  I  think  now  of  it,  lay  not  so  much 
in  the  smile  itself  as  in  the  wonder  of  it  that  she 
smiled  at  all. 

The  mater — was  she  not  always  mother  to  the 
motherless  ? — was  Letitia's  angel  in  those  weary 
days,  carried  fresh  loaves  of  good  brown  bread 
to  her,  a  pot  of  beans,  or  a  pie,  perhaps,  pass- 
ing with  them  through  the  hole  in  the  picket- 
fence.  I  can  see  her  now  standing  on  Letitia's 
kitchen  doorstep  with  the  swathed  dish  in  her 
hands. 

"The  good  fairy,"  Letitia  called  her;  and 
when  she  was  for  crying — for  cry  she  must  some- 
times, though  not  for  the  world  before  her  fa- 

68 


The   Handmaiden 

ther's  eyes — she  shed  her  tears  in  the  kitchen  in 
the  mater's  arms.  So  it  was  that  while  I  was 
yet  a  school-boy  an  elder  sister  was  born  unto 
our  house  and  became  forever  one  of  the  Weath- 
erbys  by  a  tie — not  of  blood,  I  have  said  before, 
yet  it  was  of  blood,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of 
it — it  was  of  gentle,  gentle  human  blood. 

There  was  an  old  nurse  now  to  share  Letitia's 
vigils,  but  only  the  daughter's  tender  hands 
knew  how  to  please.  She  scarcely  left  him. 
Doctor  or  friends  met  the  same  answer,  smiling 
but  unalterable:  she  would  rather  stay.  Not  a 
night  passed  that  she  did  not  waken  of  her  own 
anxiety  to  slip  softly  to  his  bedside.  He  smiled 
her  welcome,  and  she  sat  beside  him  with  his 
poor,  thin  hand  in  hers,  sometimes  till  the  dawn 
of  day. 

Day  by  day  like  that,  all  through  the  silent 
watches  of  the  darkened  world,  that  gentle  hand- 
maiden laid  her  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  her 
duty,  without  a  murmur,  without  one  bitter 
word.  It  was  her  youth  she  laid  there;  it  was 
her  girlhood  and  her  bloom  of  womanhood,  her 
first,  her  very  last  young  years — sparkle  of  eyes, 
rose  and  fulness  of  maiden  cheeks,  the  golden 
moments  of  that  flower-time  when  Love  goes 

69 


Miss    Primrose 

choosing,  playtime's  silvery  laughter  and  blithe, 
untrammelled  song. 

"  Titia,"  he  said  to  her,  "there's  no  poem— 
'alf  so  beaut'ful — 's  your  love,  m'  dear." 

The  words  were  a^  crown  to  her.  He  set  it  on 
her  bowed  head  with  his  trembling  fingers. 

"  Soft — brown  'air,"  he  murmured.  He  could 
not  see  how  the  gray  was  coming  there. 

Spring  came,  scenting  his  room  with  apple 
blooms ;  summer,  filling  it  with  orient  airs — but 
he  was  gone. 


VI 

COUSIN    DOVE 

|P  in  the  attic  of  the  Primrose  house 
one  day,  I  was  helping  Letitia  with 
those  family  treasures  which  were 
too  antiquated  for  future  usage, 
but  far  too  precious  with  memories 
to  cast  out  utterly — discarded  laces,  broken  fans, 
pencilled  school-books,  dolls  and  toys  that  had 
been  Letitia's,  the  very  cradle  in  which  she  had 
been  rocked  by  the  mother  she  could  not  re- 
member, even  the  little  home-made  pieced  and 
quilted  coverlet  they  had  tucked  about  her 
while  she  slept.  She  folded  it,  and  I  laid  it  care- 
fully in  a  wooden  box. 

" How  shall  we  fill  it?"  I  asked  her,  gazing  at 
the  odds  and  ends  about  my  feet. 

"With  these,"  she  said,  bringing  me  packages 
of  old  newspapers,  each  bundle  tied  neatly  with 
a  red  ribbon,  too  new  and  bright  ever  to  have 


Miss    Primrose 

been  worn.  I  glanced  carelessly  at  the  foolish 
packages,  as  I  thought  them — then  suddenly 
with  a  new  interest. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "they're  papers  from  Bom- 
bay!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Where  Robin  is?"  I  asked. 

There  was  no  reply  from  the  garret  gloom. 

"Did  Mr.  Bob  send  them?" 

She  was  busy  in  a  chest. 

"What  did  you  ask,  Bertram?"  she  inquired, 
absently. 

"Did  Mr.  Bob  send  these  Bombay  papers?" 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "those?" 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"No,"  she  told  me. 

"Oh,"  said  I,  much  disappointed,  "I  thought 
he  might.  They're  last  year's  papers,  too,  some 
of  them." 

"Do  they  fill  the  box?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Shall  I  nail  the  cover  on?" 

"Oh,  don't  nail  it,"  she  protested,  shuddering. 
"  We  won't  put  any  cover  on,  I  think ;  at  least— 
not  yet." 

Long  before  Dr.  Primrose  died  he  had  planned 
with  Letitia  what  she  should  do  without  him. 

72 


Cousin    Dove 

His  home  then  would  be  hers,  and  she  was  to 
sell  it  and  become  a  school  -  mistress,  the  one 
vocation  for  which  his  classical  companionship 
had  seemed  to  fit  her  and  to  which  her  own  book- 
loving  mind  inclined.  Left  alone  then  she  tried 
vainly  to  dispose  of  her  little  property,  living 
meanwhile  with  us  next  door  to  it,  and  gradually, 
chiefly  with  my  own  assistance  and  the  mater's, 
packing  and  storing  the  few  possessions  from 
which  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  part.  To 
Editor  Butters  she  presented  an  old  edition  of 
King  Lear;  to  me,  not  one,  but  many  of  her 
father's  best  -  loved  books,  which  she  fancied 
might  be  of  charm  and  use  to  me. 

Of  relatives  across  the  sea  Letitia  knew  little 
beyond  a  few  strange  names  she  had  heard  her 
father  speak,  and  in  her  native  and  his  adopted 
land  she  had  no  kinsfolk  she  had  ever  seen  save 
a  distant  cousin  as  far  removed  from  her  in  miles 
as  blood,  and  remembered  chiefly  as  a  mar- 
vellously brocaded  waistcoat  with  pearl  buttons, 
to  which  she  had  raised  her  timorous  eyes  on  his 
only  visit  to  her  father  years  ago.  Apparently, 
this  little  girl  had  gone  no  farther  up.  She  could 
never  remember  a  face  above  that  saffron  vest, 
and,  what  was  still  more  remarkable,  considering 

73 


Miss    Primrose 

her  shyness,  was  never  certain  even  of  the  knees 
and  boots  that  must  have  been  somewhere  below. 

Now  the  yellow  waistcoat,  whose  name  was 
George — Cousin  George  McLean — had  a  daughter 
Dove,  or  Cousin  Dove,  as  Letitia  called  her,  con- 
cerning whom  we  always  used  to  smile  and  won- 
der, so  that  in  course  of  time  myths  had  grown 
up  about  the  girl  whom  none  of  us  had  ever  seen 
and  of  whom  we  had  no  notions  save  the  idle 
fancies  suggested  by  her  odd,  sweet,  unforgettable 
little  name. 

The  mater  had  always  said  that  she  must  be 
a  quaint  and  demure  little  thing— in  short,  dove- 
like. 

That,  my  father  argued,  was  quite  unlikely, 
since  he  had  never  known  a  child  to  mature  in 
keeping  with  a  foolish,  flowery,  or  pious  Chris- 
tian name.  He  had  never  known  a  human  Lily 
to  grow  up  tall  and  pale  and  slender,  or  a  Violet 
to  be  shy  and  modest  and  petite,  or  a  Faith  or 
Hope  or  Patience  to  be  singularly  spiritual  and 

mild.  For  example,  there  was  Charity  B , 

of  Grassy  Ford,  who  hinted  that  heaven  was 
Presbyterian,  and  that  she  knew  folks,  not  a 
thousand  miles  off,  either,  who  would  never  be — 
Presbyterians,  my  father  said ;  and  so,  he  added, 

74 


Cousin   Dove 

it  was  dollars  to  dough-nuts  that  Cousin  Dove 
was  not  at  all  dovelike,  but  a  freckled  and  red- 
haired,  roistering,  tomboy  little  thing. 

Letitia  had  a  notion,  she  scarce  knew  how  or 
why,  that  Cousin  Dove  was  not  birdlike,  but 
like  a  flower,  she  said  —  a  white -and -pink- 
cheeked  British  type  with  fluffy  yellow  hair 
and  a  fondness  for  candy,  trinkets,  and  even 
boys. 

As  for  myself,  I  had  two  notions  as  a  boy — one 
for  the  forum,  the  other  for  my  cell.  The  first 
was  simply  that  Cousin  Dove  was  pale  and  tall 
and  frigid  beyond  endurance.  I  could  see  her, 
I  declared,  going  to  church  somewhere  with  two 
little  black-and-gilt  books  held  limply  in  her  hand 
— and  she  had  green  eyes,  I  said.  On  the  other 
hand,  privately,  I  kept  a  far  different  portrait 
in  mind — a  gilded  one,  rather  a  golden  vision  by 
way  of  analogy,  I  suppose,  for  was  not  Dove  the 
veritable  daughter  of  a  gorgeous,  saffron-hued 
brocade?  From  yellow  waistcoat  to  cloth  of 
gold  is  but  a  step  for  a  bookish  boy.  She  was 
tall  and  stately,  I  told  myself;  and  as  I  saw  her 
then,  her  'mediaeval  robe  clung  lovingly  about 
her,  plain  but  edged  with  pearls  (seed-pearls  I 
think  they  called  them  in  the  old  romances), 

75 


Miss    Primrose 

and  she  had  a  necklace  of  larger  pearls,  loops  of 
them  hanging  a  golden  cross  upon  her  bosom. 
Her  face  was  radiant,  her  eyes  blue,  her  hair 
golden,  and  she  wore  a  coronal  of  meadow  flow- 
ers. I  do  not  mean  that  I  really  fancied  Cousin 
Dove  was  so  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  such  to  me 
was  the  spirit  of  her  gentle  name,  the  spell  of 
which  had  conjured  up  for  me  in  some  rare  mo- 
ment of  youthful  fancy  this  Lady  of  the  Mari- 
golds, this  Christmas-card  St.  Dove. 

In  the  midst  of  Letitia's  sad  uprooting  of  her 
old  garden,  as  she  called  the  only  home  she  had 
ever  known,  a  letter  came  from  the  yellow  waist- 
coat conveying  surprising  news.  Dove  herself 
was  leaving  for  Grassy  Ford  to  persuade  her 
cousin  to  return  with  her  and  dwell  henceforth 
with  the  McLeans.  A  thrill  ran  through  our 
little  household  at  the  thought  of  that  approach- 
ing maid  of  dreams.  Now  we  should  know, 
the  mater  said,  that  the  girl  was  dovelike. 
"Humpf!"  was  my  father's  comment.  Letitia 
trembled,  she  said,  with  a  return  of  her  childish 
awe  of  the  yellow  waistcoat.  I  myself  was 
stirred — I  was  still  in  teens,  and  dreaded  girls  I 
had  never  met. 

On  the  July  morning  that  was  to  bring  her,  I 
76 


Cousin    Dove 

rose  early,  I  remember,  and  took  down  my  fish- 
ing-rod. 

-  "  Not  a  bad  idea,  either,"  remarked  my  father, 
as'  he  stood  watching  me.  "Still,"  he  added, 
"there's  no  hurry,  Bertram.  She'll  want  to 
change  her  dress  first,  you  know." 

I  made  no  answer. 

"It's  a  bit  selfish  though,"  he  continued,  "to 
be  carrying  her  off  this  way  the'very  first  morn- 
ing." 

"Mother,"  I  said,  coolly,  "will  you  put  up 
some  sandwiches?  I  may  not  be  back  till 
dark." 

"  Why,  Bertram !     Going  fishing  on  the  day— 

"  I  don't  really  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with 
it,"  I  interrupted.  "Must  I  give  up  all  my  fun 
because  a  mere  girl's  coming?" 

"No,  Bertram,"  said  my  father,  in  his  kindest 
tones.  "Go,  by  all  means,  and  here  [he  was 
rummaging  in  the  bookcase  drawer] — here,  my 
son,  take  these  along,  these  old  field-glasses. 
They  may  come  handy.  You  can  see  our  yard, 
you  know,  from  the  top  of  Sun  Dial — and  the 
front  porch.  Splendid  fishing  up  on  Sun  Dial — " 

But  I  was  off. 

"  Bertram!     Bertram!"  called  my  mother,  but 
6  77 


Miss   Primrose 

I  did  not  heed  her.  I  stopped  at  a  grocery  for 
cheese  and  crackers,  and  strode  off  to  the  farthest 
brook — farthest,  I  mean,  from  Sun  Dial.  Trouble- 
some Brook,  it  was  called,  not  so  much  for  the 
spring  freshets  that  spread  it  over  the  lower 
meadows  as  for  the  law  -  suits  it  had  flowed 
through  in  its  fickle  course  between  two  town- 
ships and  good  farm-lands.  Under  its  willows 
I  cooled  my  wrath  and  disentangled  my  knotted 
tackle.  The  stream  flowed  silently.  There  was 
no  wind,  no  sound,  indeed,  but  the  drone  of  in- 
sects ;  all  about  me  was  a  world  in  reverie,  mid- 
summer-green save  for  the  white  and  blue  above 
and  the  yellow  wings  of  vagrant  butterflies  and 
the  sun  golden  on  the  meadows.  Many  a  time  I 
have  fished  in  that  very  spot.  It  is  a  likely  one 
for  idleness  and  for  larger  fish  than  any  I  ever 
caught  there,  and  waiting  for  them  as  a  boy  I 
used  to  read  in  the  little  pocket-fitting  books  I 
dote  on  to  this  day — they  fit  the  hand  so  warmly, 
unlike  their  bigger  brethren,  who  at  the  most  give 
you  three-fingers'  courtesy.  There  on  that  same 
moist  bank  I  have  sounded  deeper  pools  than 
Troublesome's,  and  have  come  home  laden  with 
unlooked-for  spoil  that  glistens  still  in  a  certain 
time-worn  upper  creel  of  mine. 

78 


Cousin    Dove 

But  I  had  no  book  that  day,  having  forgotten 
one  in  my  hurried  parting,  and  I  had  not  yet 
mastered  that  other  tranquil  art  of  packing  little 
bowls  with  minced  brown  meditation — so  I  was 
restless.  The  world  seemed  but  half  awake.  I 
chafed  at  the  stillness.  Before,  I  had  found  it 
pleasant;  now  it  nettled  me.  I  frowned  im- 
patiently at  my  cork  dozing  on  the  waters.  I 
roused  it  savagely,  and  gazed  up  at  the  sun. 

"Queer,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Queer  it  should 
be  so  late  this  morning" — but  I  did  not  mean  the 
sun. 

Trains  from  the  West  glide  into  Grassy  Ford 
on  a  long  curve  following  the  trend  of  Trouble- 
some and  the  pastoral  valley  through  which  it 
runs.  It  is  a  descending  grade  down  which  the 
cars  plunge  roaring  as  though  they  had  gathered 
speed  rather  than  slackened  it,  and  as  though 
they  would  run  the  gantlet  of  the  ugly  build- 
ings and  red  freight-cars  that,  from  the  windows 
of  the  train,  are  all  one  sees  of  our  lovely  town. 
Now  the  Black  Arrow  was  the  pride  of  the  X., 
Y.  &  Z.,  and  all  that  summer  had  arrived  in  the 
nick  of  its  schedule  time. 

"  Funny,"  said  I  to  myself,  looking  at  the  sun. 
"  Funny  it  should  be  late  this  morning." 

79 


Miss  Primrose 

I  pulled  up  my  hook  and  cast  it  in  again.  My 
cork  shook  itself — yawned,  I  was  about  to  say, 
and  settled  down  again  as  complacently  as  be- 
fore. Leisurely  the  ripples  widened  and  were 
effaced  among  the  shadows. 

What  right  had  any  one  to  assume  that  I  had 
not  long  planned  to  go  a-fishing  that  very 
morning  ? 

I  pulled  up  my  line  again. 

Even  a  father  should  not  presume  on  the 
kinship  of  his  son. 

I  dropped  my  bait  into  a  likelier  hole. 

Besides,  I  was  not  a  child  any  longer,  to  be 
bullyragged  by  older  people.  Had  I  not  gone 
fishing  a  hundred  times? — yet  no  one  had  ever 
deemed  it  odd  before. 

My  float  drifted  against  a  snag.  I  jerked  it 
back. 

It  was  the  only  unpleasant  trait  my  father 
had. 

Again  I  squinted  at  the  sun.  "Queer,"  said 
I,  "it  should  be  so  late  this  morning."  I  pulled 
up  my — 

Hark!  That  was  a  whistle!  There  would  be 
just  time  to  reach  the  open  if  I  ran! 

I  ran. 

80 


Cousin    Dove 

Breathless,  I  made  the  meadow  fence  and 
clambered  up — and  saw  her  train  go  by.  Yes, 
I — I  waved  to  it.  Suppose  she  had  seen  me !  I 
was  only  some  truant  farm-boy  on  a  rail. 

Her  train  ran  by  me  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and 
clattered  on  among  the  freight-cars.  I  heard 
the  rumble  die  away,  but  the  bell  kept  ringing. 
The  brakeman,  doubtless,  would  help  her  off — 
Letitia  would  be  waiting  with  out-stretched  arms 
—girls  are  such  fools  for  kissing  —  and  then 
father  would  take  her  bag,  and  the  surrey  would 
whisk  her  off  to  the  mater,  bareheaded  at  the 
gate.  Rails  are  sharp  sitting;  let  us  look  at  the 
cork  again. 

It  was  calm  as  ever  and  nestling  against  a 
snag.  I  pulled  up  my  line  till  the  bait  emerged, 
limp,  unnibbled.  Savagely  I  swished  it  back — 
it  caught  in  the  willows.  I  pulled.  It  would  not 
budge.  In  a  sudden  rage  I  whipped  out  my 
pocket-knife,  severed  the  cord  as  high  above  me 
as  I  could  reach,  and  wrapping  the  remnant 
about  my  rod,  turned  townward. 

A  dozen  yards  from  the  faithless  stream,  I 
remembered  my  cheese  and  crackers,  and  went 
back  for  them,  and  started  off  again,  purpose- 
less. Never  before  had  vagabondage  on  a  golden 

81 


Miss    Primrose 

morning  seemed  irksome  to  me.  It  was  not 
that  I  wished  to  see  Cousin  Dove,  but  merely 
that  I  had  no  desire  to  do  anything  else — a 
different  matter.  Only  one  way  was  really 
barred  to  me,  since  in  point  of  pride  I  could  not 
go  homeward  till  the  sun  sank,  yet  all  other 
ways  seemed  shorn  somehow  of  their  old  de- 
lights, I  knew  so  well  every  stick  and  stone  of 
them. 

While  I  was  dallying  thus,  irresolute,  I  thought 
of  "The  Pide  Bull"  and  my  old  friend  Butters. 
It  was  inspiration.  In  twenty  minutes  (mindful 
of  my  father's  eyes  meanwhile)  I  had  reached 
the  shop. 

"Hello,"  he  growled,  as  I  appeared.  "You 
here  again?" 

"Yep." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Nothing." 

"Humpf!     Help  yourself,  then." 

"Mr.  Butters,  what  kind  of  type  is  this?" 

"What  type?" 

"This  type." 

"  What  good  '11  it  do  to  tell  you  ?  You  won't 
remember  it,  if  I  do." 

"Yes,  I  will." 

82 


Cousin    Dove 

"You  won't  know  ten  minutes  aft'er  I  tell 
you." 

"Go  on,  Mr.  Butters.     Tell  me." 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,  it's  b'geois." 

"B-what?" 

"  B'geois,  I  tell  you,  and  I  won't  tell  you  again, 
either." 

"How  do  you  spell  it,  Mr.  Butters?" 

"  Say,  what  do  you  think  I  am  ?  I  haven't  got 
time  to  sit  here  all  day  and  answer  questions." 

"But  how  do  you  spell  it,  Mr.  Butters?" 

"Dictionary  's  handy,  isn't  it?" 

"You  ought  to  know  how  to  spell  it,"  I  re- 
marked, fluttering  the  dictionary. 

"Who  said  I  didn't  know  how  to  spell  it?" 

"  You  told  me  to  look  it  up." 

"  Did,  hey  ?  And  what  d'  I  do  it  for  ?  D'  you 
think  I've  got  time  to  be  talking  to  every  young 
sprig  like  you?" 

"  Here  it  is,  Mr.  Butters.  It's  spelled  b-o-u-r- 
g-e-o-i-s." 

"Precisely,"  said  the  editor — " b-o-u-r-g-o-i-s, 
bur- Joyce." 

"No — g-e-o-i-s,  Mr.  Butters." 

"Just  what  I  said." 

"You  left  out  the  'e.'" 
83 


Miss    Primrose 

"Why,  confound  you,  what  do  you  mean  by 
telling  me  I  don't  know  my  own  business?" 

"I  was  only  fooling,  Mr.  Butters.  You  did 
say  the  'e,'  of  course." 

"You're  a  liar!"  he  promptly  answered.  "I 
didn't  say  the  'e,'  and  you  know  it!" 

He  broke  off  into  a  roar  of  triumphant  laugh- 
ter, but  well  I  knew  who  had  won  the  day.  He 
was  mine — he  and  "The  Pide  Bull,"  and  the 
story  of  his  wife's  uncle's  old  yellow  rooster,  and 
the  twenty  legends  of  Tommy  Rice,  the  sexton, 
who  "stuttered  in  his  walk,  by  George!" — yes, 
and  the  famous  narrative  of  how  Mr.  Butters 
thrashed  the  barkeep — all,  all  his  darling  mem- 
ories were  mine  till  sunset  if  I  chose  to  listen. 

He  took  me  to  luncheon  at  the  Palace  Hotel 
near  by  his  shop,  and  afterwards  mellowed  per- 
ceptibly over  his  pipe,  as  we  sat  together  in  the 
clutter  of  paper  about  his  desk  waiting  for  the 
one-o'clock  whistle  to  blow  him  to  work  again. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Eighteen,"  said  I,  half  ashamed  I  was  no 
more. 

"Beautiful  age,"  he  mused,  nodding  his  head 
and  stroking  his  warm  black  bowl.  "  Beautiful 
age,  my  boy."  He  spoke  so  mildly  that  I  waited, 

84 


Cousin    Dove 

silent  and  a  little  awed  to  have  come  so  near 
him  unawares,  and  feeling  the  presence  of  some 
story  he  had  never  told  before. 

But  the  whistle  blew  one  o'clock  and  he  rose 
and  put  on  his  apron,  and  went  back  to  his  case 
again,  talking  some  nonsense  about  the  weather; 
and  though  I  lingered  all  afternoon,  he  was 
nothing  but  the  old,  gruff  printer,  and  never 
afterwards  did  I  catch  him  nooning  and  thinking 
of  the  age  he  said  was  beautiful. 

It  was  six  when  I  took  up  my  fishing-tackle  and 
went  home  to  supper,  whistling.  I  found  the 
mater  in  the  kitchen. 

"Ah,"  she  said.     "What  luck,  Bertram?" 
"  None,"  I  replied.     "  The  fish  weren't  biting." 
"Oh,  that's  too  bad.     You  must  be  tired." 
"I  am,  and  hungry.     Is  father  home?" 
"  Not  yet.     Come,  you  must  meet — 
But  I  ran  up  the  kitchen  staircase  to  the  hall 
above.     Safe  in  my  room,  I  could  hear  a  mur- 
muring from  Letitia's.     Hers  was  a  front  room, 
mine  a  rear  one,  and  a  long  hall  intervened,  so 
I  made  nothing  of  the  voices. 

I  scrubbed  and  lathered  till  my  nose  was  red 
and  shining  beautifully.  Then  I  drew  on  my 
Sunday  suit,  in  which  I  always  stood  the  straight- 

85 


Miss    Primrose 

er,  and  my  best  black  shoes,  in  whieh  I  always 
stamped  the  louder,  and  my  highest,  whitest 
collar,  and  my  best  light  silk  cravat — a  Christ- 
mas present  from  Letitia,  a  wondrous  thing  of 
pale,  sweet  lavender,  in  which  not  Solomon — 
though  it  would  hike  up  behind.  It  was  not 
like  other  ties,  and  while  I  was  struggling  there 
I  heard  the  supper  knell.  I  pulled  fiercely.  The 
soft  silk  crumpled  taut — and  the  bow  stuck  up 
seven  ways  for  Sunday.  So  I  unravelled  it 
again — looped  it  once  more  with  trembling  fin- 
gers, for  I  heard  the  voices  on  the  stairs,  and 
jerked  it  into  place — but  what  a  jumble! 

"  Bertram !  Bertram !"  It  was  father's  voice. 
"Supper,  Bertram." 

"In  a  minute." 

The  face  in  the  glass  was  red  as  a  sunset  in 
harvest-time.  The  eyes  I  saw  there  popped 
wildly. 

"Bertram!" 

"  Yes ;  I  hear  you !     [Confound  it.] " 

"Supper,  Bertram.     We  are  all  waiting." 

I  deigned  no  answer. 

Then  father  rang.  Oh,  I  knew  it  was  father. 
I  looped  desperately  and  hauled  again  like  a 
sailor  at  his  cordage,  and  so,  muttering,  wrung 

86 


Cousin    Dove 

out  a  bow-knot.  Then  in  the  mirror  I  took  a 
last  despairing  look,  leaped  for  the  doorway, 
slipped,  stumbled,  and  almost  fell  upon  the 
stairs,  hearing  below  me  a  lusty  warning  — 
"Here  he  comes!"  —  and  so  emerged,  rosy,  a 
youth-illumined,  with  something  lavender,  they 
tell  me,  fluttering  in  my  teeth  (and  something 
blood-red,  I  could  tell  them,  trembling  in  my 
heart). 

And  there  she  was! 

There  she  stood  in  the  smiling  midst  of  them, 
smiling  herself  and  giving  me  her  hand — Cousin 
Dove — Cousin  Dove  McLean,  at  the  first  sight 
of  whom  my  shyness  vanished. 

"Your  tie,  my  son,  seems  a  trifle — " 

So  this  was  Cousin  Dove?  —  this  was  the 
daughter  of  the  golden  waistcoat — this  brown- 
eyed  school-girl  with  brown — no,  as  I  lived! — 
red  hair. 


VII 

OF   HAMADRYADS   AND   THEIR   SPELLS 

IT  was  a  golden  summer  that  last  of 
my  youth  at  home,  with  Cousin 
Dove  to  keep  us  forever  smiling. 
She  was  just  eighteen  and  of  that 
'blessed  temperament  which  loves 
each  day  for  its  gray  or  its  sunny  self.  She 
coaxed  Letitia  out-of-doors  where  they  walked 
much  in  the  mater's  garden  with  their  arms  about 
each  other's  waist.  Letitia's  pace  was  always 
deliberate,  while  Dove  had  the  manner  of  a 
child  restrained,  as  if  some  blithe  and  skipping 
step  would  have  been  more  pleasant,  would  have 
matched  better  her  restless  buoyancy,  her  ever 
upturned  beaming  face  as  she  confided  in  the 
elder  woman — what?  What  do  girjs  talk  so 
long  about?  I  used  to  marvel  at  them,  won- 
dering what  Dove  could  find  so  merry  among 
our  currant-vines.  She  was  a  child  beside  Le- 

88 


Of  Hamadryads    and  their    Spells 

titia.  She  had  no  memories  to  modulate  that 
laughing  voice  of  hers,  no  tears  to  quench  the 
twin  flames  dancing  in  her  eyes,  and  never  an 
anxious  thought  in  those  days  to  cast  its  shadow 
there  where  her  hair — red,  I  first  called  it ;  it  was 
pure  chestnut — brown,  I  mean,  with  the  red  just 
showing  through,  and  wondrous  soft  and  pretty 
on  the  margin  of  her  fair  white  forehead,  where 
it  clung  like  tendrils  of  young  scampering  vine 
reddening  in  the  April  sun.  Even  Letitia,  whose 
Present  seemed  always  twilit,  was  tempted  by- 
and-by  into  claiming  something  of  that  heritage 
of  youth  of  which  she  had  been  so  long  deprived. 
From  mere  smiling  upon  her  gay  young  cousin 
she  fell  to  making  little  joyous  venturings  herself 
into  our  frolics,  repartees,  and  harmless  badinage 
— "midsummer  madness,"  father  called  it  —  a 
sort  of  scarlet  rash,  he  said,  which  affected  per- 
sons loitering  on  starlit  evenings  on  the  porch 
or  wandering  under  trees.  He  was  the  soul  of 
our  table  banter,  and  after  supper  sat  with  us 
on  the  steps  smoking  his  cigar  and  "devilling," 
as  he  said,  "you  younger  caps  and  bells." 
Whom  he  loved  he  teased,  after  the  fashion  of 
older  men,  and  Dove  was  the  chief  butt  of 
that  rude  fondness.  It  was  not  his  habit 

89 


Miss  Primrose 

to  caress,  but  his  eyes  twinkled  at  his  fair 
victim. 

"And  to  think,  Dove,"  he  was  wont  to  say 
when  she  had  charmed  him,  "  that  Bertram  here 
swore  that  you  carried  prayer-books  and  had 
green  eyes!" 

"And  what  did  you  prophesy,  Uncle  Weath- 
erby?" 

"I?    The  truth." 

"And  what  was  that?" 

"  Why,  /  said  you  were  an  angel,  though  a  lit- 
tle frolicsome  perhaps,  and  with  beautiful  au- 
burn hair.  Did  I  not,  my  son?" 

"  No,  sir.  You  thought  she  would  be  a  tom- 
boy with  red — " 

"Precisely,"  he  would  interrupt.  "You  see, 
my  dear,  how  in  every  particular  I  am  corrob- 
orated by  my  son." 

Into  these  quiet  family  tournaments,  Letitia, 
as  I  have  said,  was  slowly  drawn,  but  it  was  a 
new  world  to  her  and  she  was  timid  in  it.  Doc- 
tor Primrose  had  been  endowed  with  wit,  even 
with  a  quiet,  subtle  humor  in  which  his  daughter 
shared,  but  beneath  their  lighter  moments  there 
had  flowed  always  an  undercurrent  of  that  sad 
gravity  which  tinged  their  lives  together.  If 

90 


Of  Hamadryads    and   their   Spelts 

they  were  playful  in  each  other's  company,  it 
was  out  of  pity  for  each  other's  lot,  his  in  his 
chair,  hers  by  its  side,  rather  than  because  they 
could  not  help  the  jest.  It  was  meant  to  cheer 
each  other — that  kind  of  tender  gayety  which, 
however  fanciful,  however  smiling,  ends  where  it 
begins — in  tears  unshed.  Waters  in  silent  wood- 
land fountains,  all  untouched  by  a  single  gleam 
from  the  sky  above  the  boughs,  lose  sometimes 
their  darker  hues  and  turn  to  amber  beneath  the 
fallen  leaves — but  they  are  never  golden  like  the 
meadow  pools;  they  never  flash  and  sparkle  in 
the  sun. 

Letitia  was  not  yet  thirty;  life  stretched  years 
before  her  yet;  so,  coaxed  by  Cousin  Dove  and 
me,  she  gave  her  hands  to  us,  half-delighted,  half- 
afraid.  Here  now,  at  last,  were  holidays,  games, 
tricks,  revels,  the  mummery  and  masque,  the 
pipe  and  tabor — all  the  rosy  carnival  of  youth. 
Her  eyes  kindled,  her  heart  beat  faster  as  we 
led  her  on" — but  at  the  first  romp  failed  her. 
It  was  beautiful,  she  pleaded — only  let  her  smile 
upon  it  as  from  a  balcony — she  could  not  dance 
— she  had  never  learned  our  songs. 

We  did  not  urge  her.  She  sat  with  the  mater 
and  smiled  gladly  upon  our  mirth.  In  all  the 


Miss   Primrose 

frolics  of  that  happy  summer  her  eyes  were 
always  on  Cousin  Dove,  as  if,  watching,  she  were 
thinking  to  herself  —  enviously,  often  sadly,  I 
have  no  doubt,  but  through  it  all  lovingly  and 
with  a  kind  of  pride  in  that  grace  and  flower- 
ness — 

"There  is  the  girl  I  might  have  been." 

Dove,  even  when  she  seemed  the  very  spirit 
of  our  effervescence,  kept  always  a  certain  let- 
ter of  that  lovely  quaintness  which  her  name 
implied.  She  was  a  dove,  the  mater  said,  re- 
minding us  for  the  hundredth  time  of  her  old 
prediction  —  a  dove  always,  even  among  the 
magpies ;  meaning,  I  suppose,  father  and  myself. 

It  was  not  all  play  that  summer.  I  was  to 
enter  college  in  the  fall,  and  I  labored  at  exer- 
cises, helped  not  a  little  by  a  voice  still  saying: 

"  That's  right,  my  boy.  Remember  what  Dr. 
Primrose  said  when  he  gave  you  Horace." 

Now  was  I  under  the  spell  of  that  ancient  life 
which  had  held  him  thralled  to  his  very  end. 
Mine  were  but  meagre  vistas,  it  is  true,  but  I 
caught  such  glimpses  of  marble  beauty  through 
the  pergola  of  Time,  as  made  me  a  little  proud 
of  my  far-sightedness.  Seated  with  Dove  and 
Letitia  beneath  a  favorite  oak,  half-way  up  Sun 

92 


Of  Hamadryads    and   their   Spells 

Dial,  I  discoursed  learnedly,  as  I  supposed,  only 
to  find  that  in  classic  lore  the  poet's  daughter 
was  better  versed  than  I.  She  brightened  visi- 
bly at  the  sound  of  ancient  names;  they  had 
been  the  music  of  her  father's  world,  and  from 
earliest  childhood  she  had  listened  to  it.  Seat- 
ed upon  the  grass,  I,  the  school-boy,  expounded 
text -book  notes.  She,  the  daughter  of  "Old 
David  Homer,"  as  Butters  called  him,  told  us 
bright  tales  of  gods  and  heroes,  nymphs  and 
flowers  and  the  sailing  clouds  shell-pink  in  the 
setting  sun.  They  had  been  to  her  what  Mother 
Goose  and  Robinson  Crusoe  had  been  to  me ;  they 
had  been  her  fairy  stories,  told  her  at  eve  ere 
she  went  to  bed ;  and  now  as  she  told  them,  an 
eager  winsomeness  crept  upon  her,  her  voice  was 
sweeter,  her  face  was  glorified  with  something  of 
that  roseate  light  in  which  her  scenes  were  laid ; 
she  was  a  child  again,  and  Dove  and  I,  listening, 
were  children  with  her,  asking  more. 

She  sat  bolt-upright  while  she  romanced  for 
us.  I  lay  prone  before  her  with  my  chin  upon 
my  hands,  nibbling  grass  -  stalks.  Dove,  like 
Letitia,  sat  upon  the  turf,  now  gazing  raptly 
with  her  round  brown  eyes  at  the  story-teller's 
face,  now  gazing  off  at  the  purple  woodland 
»  93 


Miss  Primrose 

distance  or  at  Grassy  Ford's  white  spires  among 
the  elms  below. 

"Why,  Letty,  you're  a  poetess,"  Dove  once 
said,  so  breathlessly  that  Letitia  laughed.  "  And 
I,"  Dove  added,  "why,  I  don't  know  a  single 
story." 

"Why  should  you  know  one?"  replied  Letitia, 
pinching  Dove's  rueful  face.  "  Why  tell  an  idyl, 
when  you  can  live  one,  little  Chloe,  little  wild 
olive?  You  yourself  shall  be  a  heroine,  my 
dear." 

Idling  there  under  distant  trees  for  refuge 
from  the  August  sun,  which  burns  and  browns 
our  Grassy  Fordshire,  crumbling  our  roads  to  a 
gray  powder  and  veiling  with  it  the  green  of 
way-side  hedge  and  vine — idling  there,  Dove  was 
a  creature  I  had  never  seen  before  and  but  half- 
divined  in  visions  new  to  me.  Fair  as  she  seemed 
under  our  roof-tree,  there  in  the  woodland  she 
was  far  the  lovelier.  Young  things  flowered 
about  us,  their  fragrance  scenting  the  summer 
air.  Like  them  her  presence  wore  a  no  less 
subtle  spell.  It  was  an  ancient  glamour,  though 
I  did  not  know  it  then,  it  seemed  so  new  to  me — 
one  which  young  shepherds  felt,  wondering  at  it, 
in  the  world's  morning;  and  since  earth's  daugh- 

94 


Of  Hamadryads    and   their    Spells 

ters,  then  as  now,  with  all  their  fairness,  could 
scarce  be  credited  with  such  wondrous  witchery, 
those  young  swains  came  home  breathless  from 
the  woodland  with  tales  of  dryads  and  their 
spells.  Maiden  mine,  in  the  market-place,  you 
are  only  one  among  many  women,  though  you 
be  beautiful  as  a  dream,  but  under  boughs  the 
birds  still  sing  those  songs  the  first  birds  sang — 
there  it  is  always  Eden,  and  thou  art  the  only 
woman  there. 

On  my  nineteenth  birthday  three  climbed  Sun 
Dial  as  three  had  climbed  it  once  before.  Leav- 
ing the  village  we  crossed  the  brook  by  that 
self-same  ford  of  stones,  and  plunged  at  once 
into  the  forest  and  ancient  orchard  that  clothed 
the  slope.  I  was  not  leading  now,  but  helping 
them,  Dove  and  Letitia,  over  the  rocks  and 
brambles  and  steeper  places  of  the  ascent. 
Threading  as  before  that  narrow  trail  I  knew 
by  heart,  I  broke  the  cob-webs  and  parted  the 
fragrant  tangle  that  beset  our  way,  vines  below, 
branches  above  us.  It  was  just  such  another 
August  noon,  and  the  world  was  nodding;  no 
birds  sang,  no  squirrels  chattered.  We  stopped 
for  breath,  resting  upon  a  wall  shaded  by  an 
ancient  oak. 

95 


Miss    Primrose 

"The  very  spot!"  I  cried.  "Do  you  remem- 
ber, Letitia,  how  you  and  Robin  rested  here?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  I  called  to  you,  and 
came  running  back  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I'd  been  waiting  for  you  under  an  apple- 
tree.  How  I  should  like  to  see  old  Robin 
now!" 

"Who  was  Robin?"  asked  Cousin  Dove,  and 
so  I  told  her  of  the  Devonshire  lad.  During 
my  story  Letitia  wandered,  as  she  liked  to  do, 
searching  for  odd,  half-hidden  flowers  among 
the  grasses.  Soon  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
nor  could  we  hear  her  near  us. 

"Letitia  was  fond  of  Robin,  was  she  not?" 
asked  Cousin  Dove. 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  said.     "  So  were  we  all." 

"  But  I  mean — don't  you  think  she  may  have 
loved  him?" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  never  thought  of  that;  be- 
sides, Letitia  never  had  time  for — " 

Dove  opened  wide  her  eyes. 

"Must  you  have  time  for — " 

"I  mean,"  I  stammered,  "she  was  never  free 
like — you  or  me;  we — " 

96 


Of  Hamadryads    and   their   Spells 

"  I  see,"  she  replied,  coloring.  "  He  must  have 
been  a  splendid  fellow." 

"He  was,"  I  said. 

"Dear  Letitia!"  murmured  Cousin  Dove,  gaz- 
ing thoughtfully  at  the  wilted  flower  she  held. 
The  wood  which  had  been  musical  with  voices 
was  strangely  silent  now.  It  was  something 
more  than  a  mere  stillness.  It  was  like  a  spell, 
for  I  could  not  break  it,  though  I  tried.  Dove, 
too,  was  helpless.  There  was  no  wind — I  should 
have  known  had  one  been  blowing  —  yet  the 
boughs  parted  above  her  head,  and  a  crown  fell 
shining  on  her  hair! — her  hair,  those  straying 
tendrils  of  it,  warm  and  ruddy  and  now  fired 
golden  at  that  magic  touch — her  brow,  pure  as 
a  nun's,  beneath  that  veiling — the  long,  curved 
lashes  of  her  hidden  eyes  —  her  cheeks  still 
flushed — her  lips  red-ripe  and  waiting  motion- 
less. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  me! — a  moment  only, 
but  my  heart  leaped,  for  in  that  instant  it 
dawned  upon  me  how  all  that  vision  there — 
flesh,  blood,  and  soul  —  was  just  arm's -length 
from  me! 

It  was — I  know. 


PART   II 
The   School-Mistress 


THE   OLDER   LETITIA 

|RECISELYat  half-past  seven  there 
was  a  faint  rustling  on  our  staircase 
and  a  moment  later  Letitia  Prim- 
rose appeared  at  our  breakfast-ta- 
ble smiling  "Good-morning."  She 
was  dressed  invariably  in  the  plainest  of  black 
gowns  with  the  whitest  of  niching  about  her 
wrists  and  throat,  and  at  the  collar  a  pin  which 
had  been  her  mother's,  a  cameo  Minerva  in  an 
antique  setting  of  vine  leaves  wrought  in  gold. 
The  gown  itself — I  scarcely  know  how  to  style 
it,  for  no  frill  or  foible  of  the  day  was  ever  visi- 
ble in  its  homely  contour,  or  if  existing  there, 
had  been  so  curbed  by  the  wearer's  mod- 
esty as  to  be  quite  null  and  void  to  the  naked 
eye.  Every  tress  of  her  early  whitening  hair  lay 
smoothly  back  about  her  forehead,  and  behind 
was  caught  so  neatly  beneath  her  comb,  it  might 

101 


Miss    Primrose 

be  doubted  how  or  if  she  ever  slept  upon  it. 
Just  so  immaculate,  virginal,  irreproachable 
did  the  older  Letitia  come  softly  down  to  us 
every  week-day  morning  of  her  life,  and  taking 
her  chair  between  Dove's  seat  and  mine,  she 
would  adjust  her  gold-rimmed  glasses  to  better 
see  how  the  night  had  dealt  with  us,  and  beam- 
ing upon  us  with  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  in- 
quiring smiles,  would  murmur — 

"Well?" 

She  ate  little,  and  that  so  unobtrusively,  I 
used  to  wonder  if  she  ate  at  all.  I  can  remember 
her  lifting  her  cup,  but  do  not  recall  that  it  ever 
reached  her  lips.  She  had,  I  think,  some  trick 
of  magnetism,  some  power  of  the  eye  that  held 
yours  at  the  crucial  moment,  so  that  you  never 
really  saw  her  sip  or  bite,  and  she  never  chewed, 
I  swear,  yet  I  never  heard  of  her  bad  digestion. 
Eating  in  her  was  a  chaste  indulgence  common 
only,  I  believe,  to  spinsterhood — a  rite,  commun- 
ionlike,  rather  than  a  feast. 

When  the  clock  struck  eight,  we  would  rise 
together  —  I  for  my  office,  Dove  for  farewells, 
Letitia  for  the  school-room;  I  with  a  clattering 
chair,  Dove  demurely,  Letitia  noiselessly,  to 
put  on  a  hat  as  vague  and  unassuming  as  that 

J02 


The    Older    Letitia 

decorous  garment  in  which  she  cloaked  herself 
from  the  outer  world — a  kind  of  cape  and  jacket, 
I  think  it  was,  in  winter,  but  am  not  quite  sure. 
In  summer  it  was  a  cashmere  shawl.  Then 
slipping  on  a  pair  of  gloves,  black  always  and 
always  whole,  however  faded,  she  would  take  up 
her  small  pearl-handled  parasol,  storm  or  shine, 
and  that  linen  bag  of  hers,  a  marvellous  reticule 
for  books  and  manuscripts  with  a  separate 
pocket  in  the  cover-flap  for  a  comb  and  mirror 
and  extra  handkerchief  —  though  not  to  my 
knowledge;  I  am  merely  telling  what  was  told. 
Nor  am  I  telling  all  that  was  said  of  Letitia's 
panoply  and  raiment,  the  manner  of  which  at 
every  season,  at  every  hour  of  the  night  and  day, 
was  characterized  —  if  I  have  understood  the 
matter — not  so  much  by  a  charm  of  style  as  of 
precaution,  a  modest  providence,  a  truly  ex- 
quisite foresight  and  readiness  for  all  emergen- 
cies, however  perilous,  so  that  fire  nor  flood  nor 
war's  alarms  nor  death  itself,  however  sudden, 
should  find  her  unprepared.  Fire  at  night  would 
merely  have  illumined  a  slender,  unobtrusive 
figure  descending  a  stair  or  ladder  unabashed, 
decently,  even  gracefully  arrayed  in  a  silk  kimono 
which  hung  nightly  on  the  foot-board  of  her 

103 


Miss  Primrose 

bed;  and  since  for  other  purposes  it  was 
never  worn,  it  remains  unscorched,  and,  indeed, 
unblemished,  to  this  very  day.  But  for  that 
grim  hand  the  moment  of  whose  clutch  can 
never  be  foretold  with  certainty,  nothing  could 
exceed  Letitia's  watchfulness  and  care.  She 
dressed  invariably,  I  have  said,  in  the  plainest 
black,  but  I  have  heard,  and  on  authority  I 
could  not  question,  that  however  simple  and 
inexpensive  those  outer  garments  were,  the  in- 
ner vestments  were  of  finest  linen  superimposing 
the  softest  silk.  Thus — for  a  tendency  to  some 
heart-affection  was  hereditary  in  the  Primrose 
family  —  thus  could  no  sudden  dissolution  or 
surrender,  such  as  might  occur  in  an  absence 
from  home  and  the  ministration  of  loving  friends, 
be  attended  ever  by  any  post-mortem  embarrass- 
ment or  chagrin,  but  rather  would  disclose  a 
pride  and  delicacy  of  taste  and  consideration, 
the  more  remarkable  and  worthy  of  approval 
and  regret,  because  it  could  never  otherwise  have 
been  revealed.  Nothing  I  know  of  in  the  way 
of  gifts  was  more  acceptable  to  Letitia  Primrose 
than  those  black  silk  ones  which  she  took  such 
pains  to  purchase  and  secrete. 

It  was  a  wondrous  reticule,  that  linen  pouch 
104 


The    Older  Letitia 

of  which  I  spoke,  bearing  "L.  P."  embroidered 
on  its  outer  side.  I  say  its  outer,  for  so  she 
carried  it  always;  and  in  years,  so  many  I  will 
not  count  them,  I  never  knew  that  monogram 
turned  in,  or  down.  She  met  me  with  it  in  the 
doorway  from  which  Dove  watched  us  till  we 
had  left  the  gate.  Mornings,  for  years,  we  went 
to  our  work  together,  save  when  an  urgent 
matter  summoned  me  earlier  or  compelled  me, 
against  my  will  and  exercise,  to  drive.  Morn 
after  morn  we  walked  together  to  the  red  brick 
school-house,  talking  of  village  news  and  the 
varying  moods  of  our  fickle  northern  weather, 
or  perhaps  of  books,  old  ones  and  new  ones,  or 
of  those  golden  memories  that  we  shared.  They 
were  not  perfunctory  as  I  recall  them,  those 
morning  dialogues.  There  was  no  abstraction 
about  Letitia,  no  cursory,  unweighed  chattering 
of  things  so  obvious  as  to  need  no  comment. 
Every  topic  might  be  a  theme  for  her  mild  elo- 
quence. It  might  be  of  Keats  that  she  dis- 
coursed to  me,  or  Browning  or  Alfred  Tennyson 
or  perhaps  the  Corsican,  whom  she  hated,  partly 
for  tyranny,  partly  because  he  made  her  "look 
at  him,"  she  said;  it  might  be  the  Early  Church, 
whose  records  she  had  read  and  read  again, 

105 


Miss  Primrose 

though  not  one  -  half  so  much  for  Cuthbert's 
holiness,  I  told  her,  as  for  Fuller's  quaintness, 
which  she  loved ;  or  it  might  be  a  March  morning 
that  we  walked  together,  while  she  spoke  like  a 
poet's  daughter  of  the  first  pink  arbutus  some 
grinning  farm-boy  had  laid  but  yesterday  upon 
her  desk. 

Why  no  one  ever  wooed  and  won  such  fervor 
seemed  passing  strange  to  Dove  and  me.  With 
all  the  grace  of  goodness  and  gentle  courage  in 
which  she  faced  the  world  alone,  in  all  those 
years  which  had  followed  her  father's  death,  she 
had  never,  to  Dove's  ken  or  mine,  won  a  single 
suitor.  Those  burdens  of  care  and  sacrifice  laid 
too  soon  upon  her  frail,  young  shoulders  had 
borne  early  fruit  —  patience,  wisdom,  and  a 
sweet  endurance  beyond  her  years — but  on  such 
harvest  young  men  set  small  store.  A  taste 
for  it  comes  late.  It  made  her  pleasing  to  her 
elders,  but  those  of  her  own  years  shrank  in- 
stinctively from  its  very  perfectness.  She  had 
matured  too  soon.  How  then  should  any  one 
so  coolly  virtuous  know  trial  or  passion  ?  Surely 
so  young  a  saint  could  have  no  warm  impetuous 
hours  to  remember,  no  sweet  abandonment,  no 
pretty  idyls — had  she  even  a  spring-time  to  recall  ? 

1 06 


The    Older   Letitia. 

Men  admired  her  for  her  mind  and  heart,  but 
in  her  presence  secretly  were  ill  at  ease.  Her 
self-dependence  rendered  useless  their  stronger 
arms  accustomed  to  being  leaned  upon.  She 
smiled  upon  them,  it  is  true,  but  not  as  men  like 
to  be  smiled  upon — neither  as  a  child,  trustingly, 
nor  as  a  queen,  confident  of  their  homage  and 
gallant  service.  She  appealed  neither  to  their 
protection  nor  to  their  pride.  She  awoke  the 
friend,  but  not  the  lover,  in  them;  and  so  the 
years  slipped  by  and  she  won  no  chivalry,  be- 
cause she  claimed  none.  She  had  but  asked 
and  but  received  respect. 

Our  raillery,  harmlessly  meant,  was  not  al- 
ways kind,  as  I  look  back  at  it.  It  is  scarcely 
pleasant  to  be  reminded  that  among  one's  kind 
one  is  not  preferred,  yet  Letitia  bore  all  our  jest- 
ing with  steadfast  pleasantry. 

"Do  I  look  forlorn?  Do  I  look  so  help- 
less ?"  she  would  ask.  Her  very  smile,  her 
voice,  her  step,  seemed  in  themselves  an  an- 
swer. "  What  do  I  want  with  a  husband 
then?" 

"Why,"  Dove  would  say,  "to  make  you  hap- 
py, Letitia." 

"You  child:  I  am  perfectly  happy." 
107 


Miss    Primrose 

"Well,"  Dove  would  answer,  stubbornly,  "to 
make  you  happier,  then." 

I  have  forgotten  Letitia's  answers  —  all  but 
one  of  them: 

"I  lived  so  long  with  my  scholar-love,"  she 
once  said,  sweetly,  of  her  father,  "  I  fear  I  never 
should  be  content  with  an  ordinary  man." 

Dove  declared  that  no  one  in  Grassy  Ford- 
shire  was  half  worthy  of  her  cousin ;  at  least,  she 
said,  she  knew  but  one,  and  he  was  already 
wedded — and  to  a  woman,  she  added,  humbly, 
not  half  so  good  or  wise  or  wonderful  as  Letitia. 
Dove  stoufly  held  that  Letitia  could  have  mar- 
ried, had  she  wished  it,  and  whom  she  would. 
Father  would  shake  his  head  at  that. 

"No,"  he  would  say,  "Letty  is  one  of  those 
women  men  never  think  of  as  a  bride." 

"But  why?"  Dove  would  demand  then,  loy- 
ally. "  She  is  the  very  woman  to  find  real  hap- 
piness in  loving  and  self  -  sacrifice.  Adversity 
would  never  daunt  her,  and  yet,"  my  wife  would 
say  with  scorn  rising  in  her  voice,  "  the  very  men 
who  need  such  help  and  comprehension  and 
comradeship  in  their  careers,  would  pass  her  by, 
and  for  a  chit  of  girl  who  would  never  be  happy 
sharing  their  struggles— but  only  their  success!" 

1 08 


The    Older    Letitia 

"My  dear,"  father  would  reply,  sagely,  "a 
man  glories  in  his  power  to  hand  a  woman  some- 
thing she  cannot  reach  herself.  Letty  Primrose 
has  too  long  an  arm." 

"But  if  a  man  once  married  Letitia — "  Dove 
would  protest,  and  father  would  chuckle  then. 

"Ah,  yes,  my  dear,  if  one  only  would!  But 
there's  the  rub.  Doubtless  he  would  find  Letitia 
much  like  other  women,  quite  willing  he  should 
reach  things  down  to  her  from  the  highest  shelf. 
But  he  must  be  a  wise  man  to  suspect  just  that 
— to  guess  what  lies  beneath  our  Letty's  ap- 
parent self -sufficiency." 

"An  older  man  might,"  Dove  once  suggested. 
"A  general,  or  a  great  professor,  or  a  minister 
plenipotentiary. ' ' 

"Doubtless,"  he  answered,  "but  our  Grassy 
Ford  is  a  narrow  world,  -my  dear.  The  young 
sprigs  in  it  are  only  silly  lads,  and  the  elder 
bachelors  are  very  musty  ones,  I  fear  —  and 
not  an  ambassador  among  them.  I  doubt  very 
much  if  Letitia  will  -ever  meet  him — that  man 
you  mean,  who  might  choose  Letty's  love 
through  wisdom,  and  whose  wisdom  she  might 
choose  through  love." 

Dove's  answer  was  a  sigh, 
s  109 


Miss    Primrose 

"Bertram,"  she  said,  "you  must  make  some 
real  nice,  elderly  bachelor  doctor  friends,  and 
we'll  ask  them  to  visit  us." 

It  seemed  a  likely  plan,  but  nothing  came  of 
it,  and  the  silly  lads  and  the  musty  ones  alike 
left  our  Letitia  more  and  more  to  friendships 
beyond  her  years.  From  being  so  much  in  the 
company  of  her  elders,  she  grew  in  time  to  be 
more  like  them.  Her  modesty  became  reserve ; 
reserve,  in  turn,  a  certain  awkwardness  or  shy 
aloofness  in  the  presence  of  the  other  sex — 
primness,  it  was  called.  She  had  not  forgotten 
how  to  smile;  her  talk  was  blithe  enough  with 
those  she  knew,  and  was  still  colored  by  her  love 
for  poetry,  but  it  fast  grew  quainter  and  less 
colloquial ;  there  was  a  certain  old-fashioned  care 
and  subtlety  about  it,  a  rare  completeness  in  its 
phrases  not  at  all  like  the  crude,  half-finished 
ones  with  which  our  Grassy  Ford  belles  were 
content.  It  added  to  her  charm,  I  think,  but  to 
the  evidence  as  well  of  that  maturity  and  self- 
complacency  which  all  men  seemed  to  fear  and 
shun,  not  one  suspecting  that  the  glow  beneath 
meant  youth  —  youth  preserved  through  time 
and  trial  to  be  a  light  to  her,  or  to  Love  be- 
lated. 

no 


The   Older   LetitU 

Her  brown  hair  turned  to  gray,  her  gray  to 
white,  and  she  still  came  down  to  us  smiling 
good  -  morning ;  still  worshipped  Keats,  still 
scorned  the  upstart  who  made  her  look ;  taught 
on,  year  after  year,  in  the  red  brick  school-house, 
wearing  the  wild  flowers  farm-boys  gathered  in 
the  hills.  Her  life  flowed  on  like  a  stream  in 
summer,  softly  in  shadow  and  in  sun.  She  seem- 
ed content — no  bitter  note  in  her  low  voice,  no 
glance  of  envy,  malice,  or  chagrin  in  those  kind 
gray  eyes  of  hers,  which  beamed  so  gently  upon 
others'  loves ;  we  used  to  wonder  how  they  might 
have  shone  upon  her  own. 

One  day  in  August — it  was  again  that  anni- 
versary birthday  around  which  half  my  memo- 
ries of  her  seem  to  cling — she  gave  me  a  copy  of 
In  Memoriam,  and  bought  for  herself  the  linen 
for  another  reticule.  Neatly,  and  in  the  fashion 
of  our  grandmothers'  day,  she  worked  upon  it 
her  initials,  L.  and  P.,  in  Old-English  letters,  old- 
rose  and  gold. 

"What,"  I  asked,  "is  the  figure  meant  for?" 

"The  figure?    Where?" 

"In  the  background  there — the  figure  seven, 
in  the  lighter  gold." 

She  bent  to  study  it. 

in 


Miss    Primrose 

"There  is  a  seven  there,"  she  said.  "I  must 
have  used  a  lighter  silk." 

"Then  shall  you  alter  it?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered.     "It  is  now  too  late." 

"She  means  the  figure,"  I  explained  to  Dove. 

"The  letters  also,"  Dove  murmured,  softly, 
as  we  turned  away. 


II 

ON   A    CORNER   SHELF 

IT  five  minutes  to  four  o'clock  the 
red  school -house  gave  no  sign  of 
the  redder  Hfe  beating  within  its 
walls.  The  grounds  about  it,  worn 
brown  by  hundreds  of  restless  feet 
and  marked  in  strange  diagrams,  the  mystic 
symbols  of  hop-scotch,  marbles,  and  three-old- 
cat,  were  quite  deserted  save  for  sparrows  busy 
with  crumbs  from  the  mid-day  luncheon-pails. 
Five  minutes'  later,  one  listening  by  the  picket- 
fence  might  have  heard  faintly  the  tinkling  of 
little  bells,  and  a  rising  murmur  that  with  the 
opening  of  doors  burst  suddenly  into  a  tramping 
of  myriad  feet,  while  from  the  lower  hallway  two 
marching  lines  came  down  the  outer  stair,  primly 
in  step,  till  at  the  foot  they  sprang  into  wild  dis- 
order, a  riot  of  legs  and  skirts,  with  the  shouts 
and  shrieks  and  shrill  whistlings  of  children 

"3 


Miss    Primrose 

loosed  from  bondage.  When  the  noisy  tide  had 
swept  down  the  broad  walk  into  the  street, 
Letitia  might  be  seen  following  smilingly,  her 
skirts  surrounded  by  little  girls  struggling  for  the 
honor  of  being  nearest  and  bearing  her  reticule. 
At  the  end  of  happy  days  Letitia 's  face  bore 
the  imprint  of  a  sweet  contentment,  as  if  the 
love  she  had  given  had  been  returned  twofold, 
not  only  in  the  awkward  caresses  of  her  little 
ones,  but  in  the  sight  of  such  tender  buds  opening 
day  by  day  through  her  patient  care  into  fuller 
knowledge  of  a  great  bright  world  about  them. 
She  strove  earnestly  to  show  them  more  of  it 
than  the  school-books  told;  she  aimed  higher 
than  mere  correctness  in  the  exercises,  those 
anxious,  careful,  or  heedless  scribblings  with 
which  her  reticule  was  crammed.  In  the  geog- 
raphy she  taught  there  were  deeper  colorings 
than  the  pale  tints  of  those  twenty  maps  the 
text-book  held ;  greater  currents  flowed  through 
those  green  and  pink  and  yellow  lands  than  the 
principal  rivers  there,  and  in  the  plains  between 
them  greater  harvests  had  been  garnered,  accord- 
ing to  her  stories,  than  the  principal  products, 
principal  exports — principal  paragraphs  learned 
by  rote  and  recited  senselessly. 

114 


On    a    Corner   Shelf 

Drawing,  in  Letitia's  room,  it  was  charged 
against  her  by  one  named  Shears,  who  had  the 
interests  of  the  school  at  heart  and  jaw,  had 
become  a  subterfuge  for  teaching  botany  as 
well. 

"For  draggin'  in  a  study,"  as  he  told  a  group 
on  the  corner  of  Main  and  Clingstone  streets, 
"not  deluded  in  the  grammar-grade  curricu- 
lum!" 

He  paused  to  let  the  word  have  full  effect. 

"For  wastin'  the  scholais'  time  and  gettin' 
their  feet  wet  pokin'  around  in  bogs  and  marshy 
places,  a-pullin'  weeds!  And  for  what? — why, 
by  gum,  to  draw  'em!" 

His  auditors  chuckled. 

"What,"  he  asked,  "are  drawin'-books  for?" 

His  fellow-citizens  nodded  intelligently. 

"And  even  when  she  does  use  the  books," 
cried  Mr.  Samuel  Shears,  "she  won't  let  'em 
draw  a  consarned  circle  or  cross  or  square, 
without  they  tell  her  some  fool  story  of  Michael 
the  Angelo!" 

The  crowd  laughed  hoarsely. 

"And  who  was  Michael  the  Angelo?"  asked 
Mr.  Shears,  screwing  his  face  up  in  fine  derision 
and  stamping  one  foot,  rabbit-like,  by  way  of 

"5 


Miss    Primrose 

emphasis  to  his  scorn.  "Who  was  this  here 
Michael  the  Angelo?" 

Four  men  spat  and  the  others  shuffled. 

"A  Dago!"  roared  Shears,  and  the  crowd  was 
too  much  relieved  to  do  more  than  gurgle. 
"What  does  my  son  care  about  Michael  the 
Angelo?" 

Letitia  admitted,  I  believe,  that  his  son 
didn't. 

"And  furthermore,"  said  Mr.  Shears,  insinu- 
atingly, "what  I  want  to  know  is:  why  has  she 
got  them  pitchers  a- hanging  around  the  school- 
room walls?  Pitchers  of  Dago  churches  and 
Dago  statures  —  and  I  guess  you  know  what 
Dago  statures  are — I  guess  you  know  whether 
they're  dressed  like  you  and  me! — I  guess  you 
fellows  know  all  right — and  if  you  don't,  there's 
them  that  do.  And,  in  conclusion,  I  want  to 
ask  right  here:  who's  a-payin'  for  them  there 
decorations?" 

Mr.  Shears  spat,  the  crowd  spat,  and  they 
adjourned. 

Now,  there  may  have  been  a  dozen  prints  re- 
lieving the  ugliness  and  concealing  the  cracks 
in  the  school-room  walls,  but  all  quite  innocent, 
as  I  recall  them:  "Socrates  in  the  Market- 

116 


On    a    Corner   Shelf 

Place,"  "The  Parthenon,"  "The  Battle  of 
Salamis,"  "Christian  Martyrs,"  a  tragic  moment 
in  the  arena  of  ancient  Rome,  "St.  Peter's,"  I 
suppose,  "  St.  Mark's  by  Moonlight,"  and  of  stat- 
ues only  one  and  irreproachable,  the  "Moses" 
of  Michael  Angelo.  His  "David"  was  Letitia's 
joy,  but  she  never  dreamed,  I  am  sure,  of  its 
exhibition  in  a  grammar-school,  though  I  have 
heard  her  declare  (shamelessly,  Mr.  Shears 
would  say)  that  were  it  not  for  a  Puritan  weak- 
ness of  eyesight  hereditary  in  Grassy  Ford,  that 
lithe  Jew's  ideal  figure  would  be  a  far  better 
lesson  to  her  boys  than  all  the  text-books  in 
physiology. 

"Might  it  not  incite  them  to  sling-shots?" 
queried  Dove,  softly. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Letitia,  lost  in 
her  theme,  and  noting  only  the  fact,  and  not  the 
nature,  of  the  opposition.  "  I  don't  agree  with 
you  at  all.  It  would  teach  them  the  beauty  of 
manly —  Why  do  you  laugh?" 

If  Shears  could  have  heard  her!  His  informa- 
tion, such  as  it  was,  had  been  derived  from  his 
only  son,  a  youth  named  David,  "not  by  An- 
gelo," Letitia  said,  and  hopelessly  indolent, 
whose  only  fondness  was  for  sticking  pins  into 

117 


Miss    Primrose 

smaller  boys.  He  was  useful,  however,  as  a 
barometer  in  which  the  rise  or  fall  of  his  surly 
impudence  registered  the  parental  feeling  against 
her  rule. 

Shears  and  his  kind  held  that  the  proper  study 
of  mankind  was  arithmetic.  What  would  he 
not  have  said  at  the  corner  of  Main  and  Cling- 
stone streets,  had  he  known  that  Letitia  was 
trifling  with  Robinson's  Complete?  —  that  be- 
tween its  lines,  she  was  teaching  (surreptitiously 
would  have  been  his  word),  an  original,  elemen- 
tary course  in  ethics,  a  moral  law  of  honesty, 
fair-dealing,  and  full-measure,  so  that  all  exam- 
ples, however  intricate,  were  worked  out  rigidly 
to  the  seventh  decimal,  by  the  Golden  Rule ! 

Red  geraniums  bloomed  in  her  school-room 
window,  and  on  a  corner-shelf,  set  so  low  that 
the  children  easily  might  have  leaned  upon  it, 
lay  Webster  and  another  book — always  one 
other;  though  sometimes  large  and  sometimes 
small,  now  green,  now  red,  now  blue,  now  yellow, 
but  always  seeming  to  have  been  left  there  care- 
lessly. Every  volume  bore  on  its  fly-leaf  two 
names  —  "David  Buckleton  Primrose,"  written 
in  a  bold,  old-fashioned  script  in  fading  ink,  and 
below  it  "Letitia  Primrose,"  in  a  smaller,  finer 

118 


On    a    Corner    Shelf 

but  no  less  quaint  a  hand.  That  book,  what- 
ever its  name  and  matter,  had  been  left  there 
purposely,  you  may  be  sure.  Letitia  remem- 
bered how  young  Keats  drank  his  first  sweet 
draught  of  Homer  and  became  a  Greek;  how 
little  lame  Walter  poured  over  border  legends 
to  become  the  last  of  the  Scottish  minstrels; 
and  how  that  other,  that  English  boy,  swam  the 
Hellespont  in  a  London  street,  to  climb  on  its 
farther  side,  that  flowery  bank  called  poesy. 
It  was  her  dream  that  among  her  foster-children, 
as  she  fondly  called  them,  there  might  be  one, 
perhaps,  some  day — some  rare  soul  waiting  rose- 
like  for  the  sun,  who  would  find  it  shining  on  her 
school-room  shelf.  So  she  dropped  there  weekly 
in  the  children's  way,  as  if  by  accident,  and 
without  a  word  to  them  unless  they  asked, 
books  which  had  been  her  father's  pride  or  her 
own  young  world  of  dreams — books  of  all  times 
and  mental  seasons,  but  each  one  chosen  with 
her  end  in  mind.  They  were  beyond  young 
years,  she  admitted  frankly,  as  school  years  go, 
but  when  her  Keats  came,  she  would  say,  smiling, 
they  would  be  bread-and-wine  to  him ;  milk  and 
wild-honey  they  had  been  to  her. 

"Suppose,"  said  Dove,  "it  should  be  a  girl 
119 


Miss    Primrose 

who  bears  away  sacred  fire  from  your  shelf, 
Letitia?" 

"Yes,  it  might  be  a  girl,"  replied  the  school- 
mistress. "  Perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  —  another 
'  Shakespeare's  daughter ' !"  And  yet,  she  added, 
and  with  the  faintest  color  in  her  cheeks,  know- 
ing well  that  we  knew  her  preference,  she  rather 
hoped  it  would  be  a  boy. 

Few  could  resist  that  book  waiting  by  the 
dictionary ;  at  least  they  would  open  it,  spell  out 
its  title-page,  flutter  its  yellowing  leaves,  looking 
for  pictures,  and,  disappointed,  close  it  and  turn 
away.  But  sometimes  one  more  curious  would 
stop  to  read  a  little,  and  now  and  then,  to  Le- 
titia's  joy,  a  lad  more  serious  than  the  rest 
would  turn  inquiringly  to  ask  the  meaning  of 
what  he  found  there;  then  she  would  tell  its 
story  and  loan  the  volume,  hoping  that  Johnny 
Keats  had  come  at  last. 

No  one  will  ever  know  how  many  subtle  lures 
she  set  to  tempt  her  pupils  into  pleasant  paths, 
but  men  and  women  in  Grassy  Ford  to-day  re- 
member that  it  was  Miss  Primrose  who  first  said 
this,  or  told  them  that,  and  while  her  discipline 
is  sometimes  smiled  at — she  was  far  too  trusting 
at  times,  they  tell  me — doubtless,  no  one  is  the 
120 


On    a    Corner    Shelf 

worse  for  it,  since  whatever  evil  she  may  have 
failed  to  nip,  may  be  balanced  now  by  the  good  • 
of  some  lovely  memory.  Bad  boys  grown  tall 
remembering  their  hookey-days  do  not  forget  the 
woman  they  cajoled  with  their  forged  excuses; 
and  it  is  a  fair  question,  I  maintain,  boldly,  as 
one  of  that  guilty  clan,  whether  the  one  who  put 
them  on  an  honor  they  did  not  have,  or,  let  us 
say,  had  mislaid  temporarily — whether  the  rec- 
ollection of  Letitia  Primrose  and  her  innocence 
is  not  more  potent  now  for  good  than  the  crimes 
she  overlooked,  for  evil. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  she  was  half  so  blind  as 
she  appeared  to  be,  for  as  we  walked  one  Sab- 
bath by  the  water-side,  with  the  sun  golden  on 
the  marshes,  and  birds  and  flowers  and  caress- 
ing breezes  beguiling  our  steps  farther  and 
farther  from  the  drowsy  town,  I  remember  her 
saying : 

"It  is  for  this  my  boys  play  truant  m  the 
spring-time.  Do  you  wonder,  Bertram?" 

For  the  best  of  reasons  I  did  not.  I  was 
thinking  of  how  the  springs  came  northward  to 
Grassy  Fordshire  when  I  was  a  runaway;  and 
then  suddenly  as  we  turned  a  bend  in  Trouble- 
some, there  was  a  splash,  and  two  bare  feet  sank 

121 


Miss   Primrose 

modestly  into  the  troubled  waters.  There  was 
a  bubbling,  and  then  a  head  emerged  dripping 
from  all  its  hairs.  Young  David  Shears  had 
dived  in  the  nick  of  time. 


Ill 

A   YOUNGER    ROBIN 

JHEN  our  boy  was  born  we  named 
him  Robin  Weatherby,  after  that 
elder  Robin  who  had  charmed  my 
'youth.  If  his  babyhood  lacked 
I  aught  of  love  or  discipline,  it  was 
neither  Dove's  fault  nor  Letitia's,  for  Robin's 
mother  had  ideas  and  a  book  on  childhood,  and 
dear  Letitia  did  not  need  a  book.  In  fact,  she 
clashed  with  Dove's.  I,  as  physician-in-ordinary 
to  my  child — for  in  dire  emergencies  in  my  own 
family  I  always  employ  an  old-fogy  rival — was 
naturally  of  some  little  service  in  consultation 
with  the  two  ladies  and  the  Book.  Of  the  char- 
acters of  these  associates  of  mine,  I  need  only 
say  that  Dove  was  ever  an  anxious  soul,  the 
Book  a  truthful  but  at  times  a  vague  one,  while 
Letitia  was  all  that  could  be  desired  as  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  Alarming  symptoms 

123 


Miss    Primrose 

might  puzzle  others,  but  never  her ;  they  might, 
even  to  myself,  even  to  the  Book,  bode  any  one 
of  twenty  kinds  of  evil;  to  her  they  pointed 
solely,  solemnly  to  one — that  one,  alas!  which 
had  carried  off  some  dear  child  of  her  school. 

Dove,  I  am  sure,  had  never  been  impatient 
with  Letitia,  but  now,  such  was  the  tension  of 
these  family  conferences  and  such  the  gravity 
of  the  case  involved,  there  were  times,  I  noted, 
when  the  cousins  addressed  each  other  with  the 
most  exquisite  and  elaborate  courtesy,  lest  either 
should  think  the  other  in  the  least  disturbed. 
For  example,  there  was  that  little  affair  of  con- 
solation—  a  sort  of  rubber  make-believe  with 
which  young  Robin  curbed  and  soothed  his  appe- 
tite and  invited  pensiveness.  Microbes,  Letitia 
said,  were — 

Dove  interposed  to  remind  her  that  the  things 
were  boiled  just  seven — 

Germs,  Letitia  argued,  were  not  to  be  trifled 
with. 

"Just  seven  times  a  week,  my  dear,"  said 
Dove,  triumphantly. 

"And  besides,"  Letitia  continued,  undis- 
mayed, "  they  will  ruin  the  shape  of  the  child's 
mouth." 

124 


A    Younger    Robin 

"  But  how  ?"  cried  Dove.  "  Pray  tell  me  how, 
my  love,  when  they  are  made  in  the  very  iden- 
tical im — " 

"And  modern  doctors,"  Letitia  stated  with 
some  severity,  "are  doing  away  with  so  many 
foolish  notions  of  our  grandmothers." 

"Yet  our  fathers  and  mothers,"  Dove  replied, 
"were  very  fair  specimens  of  the  race,  my  dear. 
Shakespeare,  doubtless,  was  rocked  in  a  cradle, 
and  his  brains  survived.  They  were  quite  in- 
tact, I  think  you  will  admit.  He  wasn't  joggled 
into—" 

"  Yet  who  knows  what  he  might  have  written, 
dear  love,"  answered  Letitia,  "if  he  had  been 
permitted  to  lie  quite — 

"  You  try  to  make  a  child  go  to  sleep,  my  dar- 
ling, without  something!"  my  wife  suggested. 
"Just  try  it  once,  my  dear." 

"Cradles,"  said  Letitia — but  at  this  juncture 
I  stepped  in,  authoritatively,  as  the  father  of  my 
child.  It  is  due  to  Dove,  I  confess  gladly,  and 
partly  to  Letitia  also,  that  this  fatherhood  has 
been  so  pleasant  to  look  back  upon.  Robin's 
mouth  is  very  normal,  as  even  Letitia  will  admit, 
I  know,  as  she  would  be  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  say  that  his  brains  had  suffered  any  in 
9  125 


Miss    Primrose 

the  joggling.  Somehow,  by  dint  of  boiling  the 
consolation  I  suppose,  and  by  what-not  formu- 
lae, we  got  him  up  at  last  on  two  of  the  sturdiest, 
little,  round,  brown  legs  that  ever  splashed  in 
mud-puddle — Dove's  Darling,  my  Old  Fellow, 
and  Letitia's  Love. 

Love  she  called  him  in  their  private  moments, 
and  other  names  as  fond,  I  have  no  doubt ;  pub- 
licly he  was  her  Archer,  her  Bowman,  her  Robin 
Hood.  She,  it  was,  who  purchased  him  bow- 
and-arrows,  and  replaced  for  him  without  a  mur- 
mur, three  panes  in  the  library  windows  and  a 
precious  little  wedding  vase.  The  latter  cost  her 
a  pretty  penny,  but  she  reminded  us  that  a  boy, 
after  all,  will  be  a  boy !  She  took  great  pride  in 
his  better  marksmanship  and  sought  a  suit  for 
him,  a  costume  that  should  be  traditional  of 
archers  bold. 

"Have  you  cloth,"  she  asked,  "of  the  shade 
called  Lincoln  green?" 

The  clerk  was  doubtful. 

"I'll  see,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Mr.  Peabody! 
Mr.  Peabody!" 

"Well?"  asked  a  man's  voice  hidden  be- 
hind a  wall  of  calicoes.  "  Well  ?  What  is 
it?" 

126 


A    Younger   Robin 

"Mr.  Peabody,  have  we  any  cloth  called 
Abraham — " 

"Not  Abraham  Lincoln,"  Letitia  interposed, 
mildly.  "You  misunderstood  me.  I  said  Lin- 
coln green." 

"Same  thing,"  said  the  clerk,  tartly. 

Mr.  Peabody  then  emerged  smilingly  from  be- 
hind his  wall. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Primrose,"  said  he. 
"What  can  we  do  for  you  this  morning?"  Le- 
titia carefully  repeated  her  request.  He  shook 
his  head,  while  the  young  clerk  smiled  trium- 
phantly. 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  must  be  mistaken.  I 
have  never  even  heard  of  such  a  color — and  if 
there  was  one  of  that  name,"  he  added,  with 
evident  pride  in  his  even  tones,  "I  should  cer- 
tainly know  of  it.  We  have  other  greens — " 

Letitia  flushed. 

."Why,"  she  explained,  "the  English  archers 
were  accustomed  to  wearing  a  cloth  called  Lin- 
coln green." 

Mr.  Peabody  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"  I  never  heard  of  it,"  he  replied,  stiffly ;  "  and, 
as  I  say,  I  have  been  in  the  business  for  thirty 
years." 

127 


Miss    Primrose 

"But  don't  you  remember  Robin  Hood  and 
his  merry  men?" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  a  great  light 
breaking  in  upon  him.  "You  mean  the  fairy 
stories!  Ha,  Jia!  Very  good.  Very  good,  in- 
deed. Well,  no,  Miss  Primrose,  I'm  afraid  we  can 
hardly  provide  you  with  the  cloth  that  fairies— 

"Show  me  your  green  cloths — all  of  them," 
said  Letitia,  her  cheeks  burning. 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Primrose.  Miss  Baggs,  show 
Miss  Primrose  all  of  our  green  cloths  —  all  of 
them." 

"Light  green  or  dark  green?"  queried  Miss 
Baggs,  who  had  been  delighted  with  the  whole 
affair. 

Letitia  pondered.  There  had  been  some  rea- 
son, she  reflected,  for  Robin  Hood's  choice  of 
gear. 

"Something,"  she  said,  at  last — "something 
as  near  to  the  shade  of  foliage  as  you  can  give 
me." 

"I  beg  pardon?"  inquired  Miss  Baggs. 

"The  color  of  leaves,"  explained  Letitia. 

"Well,"  Miss  Baggs  retorted,  smartly,  "some 
leaves  are  light,  and  some  are  dark,  and  some 
leaves  are  in-between." 

128 


A    Younger  Robin 

There  was  a  dangerous  gleam  in  Letitia's  eyes. 
"Show  me  all  your  green  cloths,"  she  requested, 
curtly — "all  of  them."  Miss  Baggs  obeyed. 

"I  suppose  it  really  isn't  Lincoln  green,  you 
know,"  Letitia  said,  when  she  had  brought  the 
parcel  home  with  her  and  had  spread  its  con- 
tents upon  the  sofa,  "  but  I  hope  you'll  like  it, 
Dove.  It  is  the  nearest  to  tree-green  I  could 
find." 

It  was,  indeed. 

Now,  Dove  had  never  heard  of  a  boy  in  green, 
and  had  grave  doubts,  which  it  would  not  do, 
however,  to  even  hint  to  dear  Letitia ;  so  made  it 
was,  that  archer-suit,  though  by  some  strange 
freak  of  fancy  that  caused  Letitia  keen  regret, 
Robin,  dressed  in  it,  could  seldom  be  induced 
to  play  at  archery,  always  insisting,  to  her  dis- 
comfiture, that  he  was  Grass! 

"When  you  grow  up,  my  bowman,"  she  once 
told  him,  "I'll  buy  you  a  white  suit,  all  of  flan- 
nel, and  father  shall  teach  you  to  play  at  cricket 
in  the  orchard." 

"But  crickets  are  black,"  cried  Robin,  whose 
eye  for  color,  or  the  absence  of  it,  I  told  Letitia, 
was  bound  to  ruin  her  best-laid  English  plans. 

It  was  good  to  see  them,  the  Archer  Bold  and 
129 


Miss   Primrose 

the  Gray  Lady  walking  together,  hand-in-hand 
— the  one  beaming  up,  the  other  down ;  the  one 
so  subject  to  sudden  leaps  and  bounds  and  one- 
legged  hoppings  to  avoid  the  cracks,  the  other 
flurried  lest  those  wild  friskings  should  disturb 
the  balance  she  had  kept  so  perfectly  all  those 
years  till  then. 

In  their  walks  and  talks  lay  many  stories,  I 
am  sure  —  things  which  never  will  be  written 
unless  Letitia  turns  to  authorship,  for  which  it 
is  a  little  late,  I  fear;  but  even  then  she  would 
never  dream  of  putting  such  simple  matters 
down.  She  does  not  know  at  all  the  delicious 
Lady  of  the  Linen  Reticule,  who,  to  herself,  is 
commonplace  enough.  She  might,  perhaps,  make 
a  tale  or  two  of  the  Archer  in  Lincoln  Green,  but 
what  is  the  romance  of  an  archer  without  the 
lady  in  it  ? 

One  drowsy  afternoon  on  a  Sunday  in  summer- 
time I  stretched  myself  in  my  easy-chair  with 
another  for  my  slippered  feet.  My  dinner  had 
ended  pleasantly  with  a  love-in-a-cottage  pud- 
ding which  had  dripped  blissfully  with  a  heaven- 
ly cataract  of  golden  sauce.  Dove  had  gone  out 
on  a  Sabbath  mission,  rustling  away  in  a  gown 
sprinkled  with  rose-buds — one  of  those  summer 

130 


A    Younger  Robin 

things  in  which  it  is  not  quite  safe  for  any  woman 
to  risk  herself  in  this  wicked  world. 

Such  shallow  thoughts  were  passing  through 
my  mind  as  Dove  departed,  and  when  the  front 
gate  clicked  behind  her,  I  opened  a  charming 
novel  and  went  to  sleep.  I  know  I  slept,  for  I 
walked  in  a  path  I  have  never  seen.  I  should 
like  to  see  it,  for  it  must  be  beautiful  in  the 
spring-time.  It  was  a  kind  of  autumn  when  I 
was  there.  I  was  dragging  my  feet  about  in 
the  yellow  leaves,  when  a  senile  hollyhock  leaned 
over  quietly  and  tickled  me  on  the  ear.  As  I 
brushed  it  away  I  heard  it  giggling.  Then  a 
twig  of  pear-tree  bent  and  trifled  with  my  nose, 
which  is  a  thing  no  gentleman  permits,  even  in 
dreams,  and  I  brushed  it  smartly.  Then  I  heard 
a  voice — I  suppose  the  gardener's — telling  some- 
thing to  behave  itself.  Then  I  swished  again 
among  the  leaves.  How  long  I  swished  there  I 
have  no  notion,  but  I  heard  more  voices  by-and- 
by,  and  I  remember  saying  to  myself,  "They 
are  behind  the  gooseberries."  They  did  not 
know,  of  course,  that  I  was  there,  else  they  had 
talked  more  softly. 

"No,"  said  he,  "  you  be  the  horsey." 
"Oh  no,"  said  the  other,  "I'd  rather  drive." 
131 


Miss    Primrose 

"No,  you  be  the  horsey." 

"Sh!    Let  me  drive." 

"I  said  you  be  the  horsey." 

"I  be  the  horsey?" 

"Yes.    Whoa,  horsey!   D'up!   Whoa!   D'up!" 

Then  all  was  confusion  behind  the  gooseberries 
and  the  horsey  d'upped  and  whoaed,  and  whoaed 
and  d'upped,  till  I  all  but  d'upped.  I  did  move, 
and  the  noise  stopped. 

How  long  I  slept  there  I  do  not  know,  but 
I  heard  again  those  voices  behind  the  vines, 
though  more  subdued  now,  mere  tender  under- 
tones like  lovers  in  a  garden  seat.  Lovers  I  sup- 
posed them,  and,  keeping  still,  I  listened: 

"But  I'm  not  your  little  boy,"  said  one, 
"because  you  haven't  any." 

"Oh  yes,  you  are,"  replied  the  other,  confi- 
dently. "You're  my  little  boy  because  I  love 
you." 

"But  why  don't  you  ask  God  to  send  you  a 
little  boy  all  your  own,  just  four  years  old  like 
me,  so  we  could  play  together  ?  Why  don't  you  ?" 

"  Because,"  the  reply  was,  "  you're  all  the  little 
boy  I  need." 

"  But  if  you  did  ask  God  and  the  angel  brought 
you  a  little  boy,  then  his  name  would  be  Billie." 

132 


A    Younger  Robin 

"Oh,  would  it?" 

"  Yes,  his  name  would  be  Billie,  because  now 
Billie  is  the  next  name  to  Robin." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  next  name  to 
Robin?" 

"Why,  'cause  now,  first  comes  Robin,  and 
then  comes  Billie,  and  then  comes  Tommy,  or 
else  Muffins,  if  you  turn  the  corner — unless  he's 
a  girl — and  then  he's  Annie." 

"What?"  gasped  the  second  voice.  "I  don't 
understand." 

"  Well,  then,"  the  first  voice  answered,  wearily, 
"call  him  Johnny." 

I  know  at  the  time  the  explanation  seemed 
quite  clear  to  me,  as  it  must  have  been  to  the 
second  speaker,  for  the  colloquy  ended  then  and 
there.  I  might  have  peeked  through  the  goose- 
berries and  not  been  discovered,  I  suppose,  but 
just  then  I  went  out  shooting  flamingoes  with  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  when  I  got  back,  some  time 
that  day,  the  gooseberry-vines  were  thick  with 
rose-buds.  And  while  I  was  gone  a  brook  had 
come — you  could  hear  it  plainly  on  the  other 
side  —  and  I  was  surprised,  I  remember,  and 
angry  with  my  aunt  Jemima  (I  never  had  an 
Aunt  Jemima)  for  not  telling  me.  I  listened 


Miss   Primrose 

awhile  to  the  tinkle-tinkling  till  presently  the 
burden  changed  to  a 

"  Tra,  la,  la, 
Tra,  la,  la," 

over  and  over,  till  I  said  to  myself,  "These  are 
the  Singing  Waters  the  poets  hear!"  So  I  tip- 
toed nearer  through  the  crackling  leaves,  and 
touching  the  rose- vines  very  deftly  for  fear  of 
thorns,  again  I  listened.  My  heart  beat  faster. 

"  It  is  an  English  linn!"  I  said,  astonished,  for 
there  were  words  to  it,  English  words  to  that 
singing  rivulet!  I  could  make  out  "gold"  and 
"rue"  and  "youth." 

"Some  woodland  secret!"  I  told  myself;  so  I 
listened  eagerly,  scarcely  breathing,  and  little  by 
little,  as  my  ears  grew  more  accustomed  to  the 
sounds,  I  heard  the  song,  not  once,  but  often, 
each  time  more  clearly  than  before : 

"  Many  seek  a  coronet, 
Many  sigh  for  gold, 
Some  there  are  a-seeking  yet — 
(Never  thought  of  you,  my  pet!) 
— Now  they're  passing  old. 

"  Many  yearn  for  lovers  true, 
Some  for  sleep  from  pain, 

134 


A    Younger   Robin 

Seeking  laurel,  some  find  rue — 
(Oh,  they  never  dreamed  of  you!) 
— Now  want  youth  again. 


"Crown  and  treasure,  love  like 
Peace  and  laurel -tree, 
Have  I  all,  oh!  world  of  mine — 
(Soft  little  world  my  arms  entwine) 
— Youth  thou  art  to  me." 

_,  It  seemed  familiar,  yet  I  could  not  place  the 
song,  till  at  last  it  came  to  me  that  Dr.  Primrose 
wrote  it  for  his  only  child,  a  kind  of  lullaby 
which  he  used  to  chant  to  her. 
'*  Then  I  remembered  how  all  that  while  I  had 
been  listening  with  my  eyes  shut,  and  so  I 
opened  them  to  find  the  singer — and  saw  Letitia 
with  Robin  sleeping  in  her  arms. 


IV 


HIRAM   PTOLEMY 

IE  afternoon  in  a  spring  I  am 
I  thinking  of,  passing  from  my  office 
to  the  waiting  -  room  beyond  it, 
I  found  alone  there  a  little  old 
1  gentleman  seated  patiently  on  the 
very  edge  of  an  old-fashioned  sofa  which  occu- 
pied one  corner  of  the  room.  He  rose  politely 
at  my  entrance,  and,  standing  before  me,  hat 
in  hand,  cleared  his  throat  and  managed  to 
articulate : 

"Dr.  Weatherby,  I  believe." 
I  bowed  and  asked  him  to  be  seated,  but  he 
continued  erect,  peering  up  at  me  with  eyes  that 
watered  behind  his  steel-bowed  spectacles.     He 
was  an  odd,  unkempt  figure  of  a  man ;  his  scraggly 
beard  barely  managed  to  screen  his  collar-button, 
for  he  wore  no  tie;  his  sparse,  gray  locks  fell 
quite  to  the  greasy  collar  of  his  coat,  an  antique 
136 


Hiram   Ptolemy 

frock,  once  black  but  now  of  a  greenish  hue ;  and 
his  inner  collar  was  of  celluloid  like  his  dickey 
and  like  the  cuffs  which  rattled  about  his  lean 
wrists  as  he  shook  my  hand. 

"My  name  is  Percival  —  Hirarn  De  Lancey 
Percival,"  he  said.  "De  Lancey  was  my  moth- 
er's name." 

"Will  you  come  into  my  office,  Mr.  Percival?" 
I  asked. 

"No — no,  thank  you — that  is,  I  am  not  a 
patient,"  he  explained.  "  I  just  called  on  my 
way  to — " 

He  wet  his  lips,  and  as  he  said  "New  York"  I 
fancied  I  could  detect  beneath  the  casual  man- 
ner he  assumed,  no  inconsiderable  self-satisfac- 
tion, accompanied  by  a  straightening  of  the 
bent  shoulders,  while  at  the  same  moment  he 
touched  with  one  finger  the  tip  of  his  collar  and 
thrust  up  his  chin  as  if  the  former  were  too  tight 
for  him.  With  that  he  laid  his  old  felt  hat 
among  the  magazines  on  my  table  and  took  a 
chair. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  continued,  "I  am  a  former 
protege  of  the  late  Rev.  David  Primrose,  of 
whom  you  may — " 

He  paused  significantly. 


Miss    Primrose 

"Indeed!"  I  said.  "I  knew  Dr.  Primrose 
very  well.  He  was  a  neighbor  of  ours.  His 
daughter — " 

My  visitor's  face  brightened  visibly  and  he 
hitched  his  chair  nearer  to  my  own. 

"  I  was  about  to  ask  you  concerning  the — the 
daughter,"  he  said.  "Is  she—?" 

"She  lives  with  my  family,"  I  replied.  "Le- 
titia— " 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said;  "Letitia!  That  is  the 
name — Letitia  Primrose — well,  well,  well,  well. 
Now,  that's  nice,  isn't  it?  She  lives  with  you, 
you  say." 

"Yes,"  I  explained,  "she  has  lived  with  my 
family  since  her  father's  death." 

"  He  was  a  remarkable  man,  sir,"  Mr.  Percival 
declared.  "  Yes,  sir,  he  was  a  remarkable  man. 
Dr.  Primrose  was  a  pulpit  orator  of  unusual 
power,  sir — of  unusual  power.  And  something 
of  a  poet,  sir,  I  believe." 

"Yes,"  I  assented. 

"I  never  read  his  verse,"  said  the  little  old 
gentleman,  "but  I  have  heard  it  said  that  he 
was  a  fine  hand  at  it  —  a  fine  hand  at  it.  In 
fact,  I—" 

He  paused  modestly. 

138 


Hiram    Ptolemy 

"I  am  something  of  a  writer  myself." 

"Indeed!"  I  said. 

"Oh  yes;  oh  yes,  I — but  in  a  different  line, 
sir,  I—" 

Again  he  hesitated,  apparently  through  hu- 
mility, so  that  I  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

"Yes?"  I  said. 

"  I — er — in  fact,  I — "  he  continued,  shyly. 

"Something  philosophical,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes;  oh  yes,"  he  ejaculated.  "Well,  no; 
not  that  exactly." 

"Scientific  then,  Mr.  Percival." 

He  beamed  upon  me. 

"  Well,  now,  how  did  you  guess  it  ?  How  did 
you  guess  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  I  merely  took  a  chance  at  it,"  I  replied, 
modestly. 

"Well,  now,  that's  remarkable.  Say  —  you 
seem  to  be  a  clever  young  fellow.  Are  you — 
are  you  interested — in  science?"  he  inquired, 
sitting  forward  on  the  very  edge  of  his  chair. 

"Well,  as  a  doctor,  of  course,"  I  began. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  interposed,  "but 
did  you  ever  take  up  ancient  matters  to  any 
extent?" 

"Well,  no,  I  cannot  say  that  I  have." 


Miss    Primrose 

"Latin  and  Greek,  of  course?"  suggested  Mr. 
Percival. 

"Oh  yes,  at  college — Latin  and  Greek." 

"Dr.  Weatherby,"  said  my  visitor,  his  eyes 
shining,  "I  don't  mind  telling  you:  I  am  a — " 

He  wetted  his  lips  and  glanced  nervously 
about  him. 

"We  are  quite  alone,"  I  said. 

"Dr.  Weatherby,  I  am  an  Egyptologist!" 

"You  are?"  I  answered. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Yes,  sir,  I  am  an  Egyp- 
tologist." 

"That,"  I  remarked,  "is  a  very  abstruse  de- 
partment of  knowledge." 

"It  is,  sir,"  replied  the  little  old  gentleman, 
hitching  his  chair  still  nearer,  so  that  leaning 
forward  he  could  pluck  my  sleeve.  "  I  am  the 
only  man  who  has  ever  successfully  deciphered 
the  inscriptions  on  the  great  stone  of  Iris- Iris!" 

"You  don't  say  so!"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  do,  Dr.  Weatherby.  I  am  stating  facts, 
sir.  Others  have  attempted  it,  men  eminent  in 
the  learned  world,  sir,  but  I  alone — here  in  my 
bosom — ' 

He  tapped  the  region  of  his  heart,  where  a 
lump  suggested  a  roll  of  manuscript.  "  I  alone, 

140 


Hiram    Ptolemy 

Dr.  Weatherby,  have  succeeded  in  translating 
those  time-worn  symbols.  Dr.  Weatherby" — 
he  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper — "it 
has  been  the  patient  toil  of  seven  years!" 

He  sprang  back  suddenly  in  his  chair,  and 
drawing  a  red  bandanna  from  his  coat-tails  pro- 
ceeded to  mop  his  brow. 

"Mr.  Percival,"  I  said,  cordially,  looking  at 
my  watch,  "won't  you  come  to  dinner?"  His 
eyes  sparkled. 

"Well,  now,  that's  good  of  you,"  he  said. 
"That's  very  good  of  you.  I  was  intending  to 
go  on  to  New  York  to-night  by  the  evening-train, 
but  since  you  insist,  I  might  wait  over  till  to- 
morrow." 

"Do  so,"  I  urged.  "You  shall  spend  the 
night  with  us.  Letitia  will  be  delighted  to  see 
an  old  friend  of  her  father,  and  my  wife  will  be 
equally  pleased,  I  know.  Have  you  your  grip 
with  you?" 

"It  is  just  here  —  behind  the  lounge,"  said 
Mr.  Percival,  springing  forward  with  the  agility 
of  a  boy  and  drawing  from  beneath  the  flounce 
of  the  sofa-cover  a  small  valise  of  a  kind  now 
seldom  seen  except  in  garrets  or  in  the  hands  of 
such  little,  old-fashioned  gentlemen  as  my  guest. 


Miss    Primrose 

It  had  been  glossy  black  in  its  day,  but  now  was 
sadly  bruised  and  a  little  mildewed  with  over- 
much lying  in  attic  dust.  In  the  very  centre  of 
the  outer  flap,  which  buckled  down  over  a 
shallow  pocket,  intended,  I  suppose,  for  comb 
and  brush,  was  a  small  round  mirror,  dollar- 
sized,  which  by  some  miracle  had  escaped  the 
hand  of  time. 

"By- the- way,"  I  said,  as  we  entered  my 
buggy,  "you  haven't  told  me — " 

He  interrupted  me,  smiling  delightedly. 

"Why  I  am  going  to  New  York?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Well,  sir,  I'll  tell  you.  I'll  tell  you,  doctor, 
and  it's  quite  a  story." 

"Where  is  your  home,  Mr.  Percival?" 

"Sand  Ridge,"  he  said,  "has  been  my  home, 
but  I  expect  to  reside  hereafter  in — " 

He  wetted  his  lips  and  pulled  at  his  collar 
again — 

"In  New  York,  sir." 

On  our  drive  homeward  he  told  his  story. 
Early  in  manhood  he  had  been  a  carpenter  by 
day,  by  night  a  student  of  the  ancient  languages, 
which  he  acquired  by  dint  of  such  zeal  and  sacri- 
fice that  Dr.  Primrose,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his 
143 


Hiram    Ptolemy 

own  career,  discovering  the  talents  of  the  poor 
young  artisan,  urged  and  aided  him  to  obtain 
a  pulpit  in  a  country  town.  He  proved,  I  im- 
agine, an  indifferent  preacher,  drifting  from 
place  to  place,  and  from  denomination  to  de- 
nomination, to  become  at  last  a  teacher  of  Greek 
and  Latin  in  the  Sand  Ridge  Normal  and  Col- 
legiate Institute.  Whatever  moments  he  could 
spare  from  his  academic  duties,  he  had  devoted 
eagerly  to  Egyptian  monuments,  and  more  par- 
ticularly to  that  one  of  Iris  -  Iris  which  had 
baffled  full  half  a  century  of  learned  men. 

"But  how  did  you  do  it?"  I  inquired.  He 
wriggled  delightedly  in  the  carriage-seat. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "how  does  a  man  perform 
some  marvellous  surgical  feat,  which  no  one  had 
ever  done,  or  dreamed  of  doing,  before?  Eh?" 

"I  see,"  I  replied,  nodding  sagely.  "Such 
things  are  beyond  our  ken." 

"I  did  it,"  he  chuckled.  "I  did  it,  doctor. 
And  now,  sir — "  . 

He  paused  significantly. 

"You  are  going  to  New  York,"  I  said. 

"Exactly.     To—" 

"Publish,"  I  suggested. 

"The  very  word!"  he  cried.  "Doctor,  I  am 
M3 


Miss    Primrose 

going  to  give  my  discovery  to  the  world — to  the 
world,  sir!  —  not  merely  for  the  edification  of 
savants,  but  for  the  enlightenment  of  my  fellow- 
men." 

"By  George!"  I  said,  "that's  what  I  call  phil- 
anthropy, Mr.  Percival." 

"Well,  sir,"  he  replied,  modestly,  "all  I  ask 
— all  I  ask  in  return,  sir,  is  that  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days,  rent 
free  and  bread  free,  in  some  hall  of  learning,  that 
I  may  edit  my  books  and  devote  myself  to 
further  research  undismayed  by  the — the— 

"Wolf  at  the  door,"  I  suggested. 

"Exactly,"  he  replied.     "That's  all  I  ask." 

"  It  is  little  enough,"  I  remarked. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  it  is  enough,  sir, 
for  any  learned  man." 

When  I  reached  home  with  my  unexpected 
guest,  Dove  and  Letitia  smilingly  welcomed  him ; 
I  say  smilingly,  for  there  was  that  about  the 
little  old  gentleman  which  defied  ill -humor. 
He  seemed  shy  at  first,  as  might  be  expected  of 
a  bachelor-Egyptologist,  but  the  simple  manners 
he  encountered  soon  reassured  him.  I  led  him 
to  our  best  front  bedroom,  where  he  stood, 
dazzled  apparently  by  the  whiteness  and  ruffles 

144 


Hiram   Ptolemy 

all  about  him,  and  could  not  be  induced  to  set 
down  his  valise  till  he  had  spread  a  paper  care- 
fully upon  the  rug  beneath  it. 

"Now,  I  guess  I'll  just  wash  up,"  he  said,  "if 
you'll  permit  me,"  looking  doubtfully  at  the 
spotless  towels  and  the  china  bowl  decorated 
with  roses,  which  he  called  a  basin.  I  assured 
him  that  they  were  there  to  use. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  heard  him  wander- 
ing in  the  upper  halls,  and  hastening  to  his  rescue 
I  found  him  muttering  apologies  before  a  door 
through  which  apparently  he  had  blundered, 
looking  for  the  staircase.  Safe  on  the  lower 
floor  again,  Letitia  put  him  at  his  ease  with  her 
kind  questions  about  Egyptology,  and  the  de- 
lighted scientist  was  in  the  midst  of  a  glowing 
narrative  of  the  great  stone  of  Iris  -  Iris  when 
dinner  was  announced.  It  was  evident  that 
Dove's  table  quite  disconcerted  him  with  its 
superfluity  of  glass  and  silver,  and  dropping  his 
meat-fork  on  the  floor,  he  strenuously  resisted 
all  Dove's  orders  to  replace  it  from  the  pantry. 

"  No,  no,  dear  madam,"  he  exclaimed,  pointing 
to  the  shining  row  beside  his  plate,  "  do  not  dis- 
turb yourself,  I  pray.  One  of  these  extras  here 
will  do  quite  as  well." 


Miss    Primrose 

During  the  dinner  Letitia  plied  him  with 
further  questions  till  he  wellnigh  forgot  his 
plate  in  his  elation  at  finding  such  sympathetic 
auditors.  Dove  considerately  delayed  the  courses 
while  he  talked  on,  bobbing  forward  and  back- 
ward in  his  chair,  his  slight  frame  swayed  by  his 
agitation,  his  face  glowing,  and  his  beard  bris- 
tling with  its  contortions. 

"  Never,"  he  told  me  afterwards,  as  we  passed 
from  the  dining-room  arm-in-arm — "never  have 
I  enjoyed  more  charming  and  intelligent  con- 
versation— never,  sir ! " 

I  offered  him  cigars,  but  he  declined  them, 
observing  that  while  he  never  used  "the  weed," 
he  had  up-stairs  in  his  valise,  if  we  would  permit 
him — 

We  did  so,  though  none  the  wiser  as  to  what 
he  meant,  for  he  did  not  complete  his  sentence, 
but,  bowing  acknowledgment,  he  briskly  disap- 
peared, to  return  at  once  without  further  mishap 
in  our  deceitful  upper  hallway  —  reappearing 
with  a  paper  bag  which  he  untwisted  and  offered 
gallantly  to  the  ladies. 

"Lemon-drops,"  he  said.  "Permit  me,  Mrs. 
Weatherby.  Oh,  take  more,  Miss  Letitia — do, 
I  beg ;  they  are  quite  inexpensive,  I  assure  you — 

146 


Hiram    Ptolemy 

quite  harmless  and  inexpensive.  Help  yourself 
liberally,  Mrs.  Weatherby.  Lemon  -  drops,  as 
you  are  doubtless  aware,  doctor,  are  the  most 
healthful  of  sweets,  and  as  a — have  another,  Miss 
Primrose,  do ! — as  a  relaxation  after  the  day's  toil 
are  much  to  be  preferred,  if  you  will  pardon  my 
saying  so,  Dr.  Weatherby — much  to  be  preferred 
to  that  poisonous  cigar  you  are  smoking  there." 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Percival,"  I  assented. 

"They  are  very  nice,"  Dove  said. 

"Oh,  they  are  delicious!"  cried  Letitia. 

"Are  they  not?"  said  the  little  man,  delighted 
with  his  hospitality,  and  so  I  left  them  —  two 
ladies  and  an  Egyptologist  sucking  lemon-drops 
and  talking  amiably  of  the  great  stone  of  Iris- 
Iris — while  I  attended  on  more  modern  matters, 
but  with  regret.  I  returned,  however,  in  time 
to  escort  the  scientist  to  his  bedroom,  where  he 
opened  his  valise' and  took  from  it  a  faded  cotton 
night-gown,  which  with  a  few  papers  and  a 
Testament  seemed  its  sole  contents.  His  books, 
he  explained,  had  gone  on  by  freight.  As  I 
turned  to  leave  him  he  said,  earnestly: 

"Doctor,  my  old  friend's  daughter  is  a  most 
remarkable  woman,  sir  —  a  most  remarkable 
woman." 

M7 


Miss   Primrose 

"She  is,  indeed,"  I  assented. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "she  evinced  an  interest  in 
the  smallest  detail  of  my  work!  Nothing  was 
too  trivial,  or  too  profound  for  her.  I  was 
astonished,  sir." 

"She  is  a  scholar's  daughter,  you  must  re- 
member, Mr.  Percival." 

"Ah!"  said  he.  "That's  it.  That's  it,  doc- 
tor. And  what  an  ideal  companion  she  would 
make  for  another  scholar,  sir! — or  any  man." 

Next  morning  I  was  called  into  the  country 
before  our  guest  had  risen,  and  when  I  returned 
at  noon  he  had  gone,  leaving  me  regretful  mes- 
sages. I  heard  then  what  had  happened  in  my 
absence.  Hiram  Ptolemy — it  is  the  name  we 
gave  to  our  Egyptologist — had  awakened  soon 
after  my  departure  and  was  found  by  Dove 
walking  meditatively  in  the  garden.  After 
breakfast,  while  my  wife  was  busy  with  little 
Robin,  Letitia  listened  attentively  to  a  further 
discourse  can  the  Iris-Iris,  which,  she  was  told, 
bore  on  its  surface  a  glorious  message  from  the 
ancient  to  the  modern  world. 

"It  will  cause,  dear  madam,"  said  the  scien- 
tist, his  eyes  dilating  and  his  voice  trembling 
with  emotion,  "  a  revolution  in  our  retrospective 
148 


Hiram   Ptolemy     I 

vision;  it  will  bring  us,  as  it  were,  face  to  face 
with  a  civilization  that  will  shame  our  own!" 

Letitia  told  Dove  there  was  a  wondrous  dig- 
nity in  the  little  man  as  he  spoke  those  words. 
Then  he  paused  in  his  eloquence. 

"Miss  Primrose,"  he  said,  "permit  me  to  pay 
you  a  great  compliment :  I  have  never  in  my  life 
had  the  privilege  —  of  meeting  a  woman  —  of 
such  understanding  as  your  own.  You  are  re- 
markably—  remarkably  like  your  learned  and 
lamented  father." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Percival,"  Letitia  said,  flushing, 
"you  could  not  say  a  kinder  thing." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  scientist,  "you — you  are 
quite  unattached,  are  you  not?" 

"Quite— what,  Mr.  Percival?" 

"Unattached,"  he  repeated,  "by  ties  of — the 
affections?" 

"  Oh,  quite,"  she  answered,  "  quite  unattached, 
Mr.  Percival." 

"But  surely,"  he  said,  "you  still  have — ' 

He  paused  awkwardly. 

"Oh,"  said  Letitia,  "I  shall  never  marry, 
Mr.  Percival — if  you  mean  that." 

He  bowed  gravely. 

"  Doubtless,  dear  madam — you  know  best." 
149 


A.   P.   A. 

|NE  spring  a  strange  infection  spread 
through  the  land  and  appeared 
suddenly  in  our  corner  of  it.  First 
'a  rash  became  a  matter  of  discus- 
!sion  in  our  public  places,  but  was 
not  thought  serious  until  the  journals  of  the 
larger  cities  brought  us  news  that  set  our  town 
aflame  with  apprehension.  Half  our  citizens 
broke  out  at  once  in  a  kind  of  measles,  not,  how- 
ever, of  the  common  or  school-boy  sort — that 
speckled  cloud  with  a  silver  lining  of  no-more- 
school-till-it's-over — nor  yet  that  more  malignant 
type  called  German  measles.  It  was,  in  fact, 
quite  Irish  in  its  nature,  generally  speaking,  and 
in  particular  it  was  what  might  be  termed  anti- 
papistical — for,  hark  you !  it  had  been  discovered 
that  the  Catholics  were  arming  secretly  to  take 
the  world  by  storm ! 

150 


A.  P.  A. 

There  are  many  Romanists  in  Grassy  Ford. 
St.  Peter's  steeple,  tipped  with  its  gilded  cross, 
towers  higher  than  our  Protestant  spires,  and  on 
the  Sabbath  a  hundred  farmers  tie  their  horses 
beneath  its  sheds  and  follow  their  womenfolk 
and  flocks  of  children  in  to  mass.  In  those  days 
Father  Flynn  was  the  priest,  a  youngish,  round- 
faced  man,  who  chanted  his  Latin  with  a  rich 
accent  derived  from  Donegal,  and  who  was  not 
what  is  called  militant  in  his  manner,  but  was, 
in  fact,  the  mildest-spoken  of  our  Grassy  Ford 
divines.  He  held  aloof  from  those  theological 
disputes  which  sometimes  set  his  Protestant 
brethren  by  the  ears,  declining  politely  all  in- 
vitations to  attend  the  famous  set  debates  be- 
tween our  Presbyterian  and  Universalist  min- 
isters, which  ended,  I  remember,  in  a  splendid 
God-given  victory  for — the  one  whose  flock  you 
happened  to  be  in.  Father  Flynn  only  smiled 
at  such  encounters;  he  was  not  belligerent,  and 
while  his  parish  might  with  some  good  reason 
be  described  as  coming  from  fine  old  fighting 
stock,  it  had  never  given  evidence,  so  far  as  I 
am  aware,  of  any  desire  to  use  cold  steel,  its 
warm,  red,  hairy  fists  having  proven  equal  to 
those  little  emergencies  which  sometimes  arise 


Miss    Primrose 

— more  particularly  on  a  Saturday  night,  at 
Riley's.  But  when  it  was  whispered,  then 
spoken  aloud,  and  finally  charged  openly  on  the 
street  corners  and  even  in  letters  to  the  Gazette, 
then  edited  by  Butters 's  son,  that  Father  Flynn 
was  training  a  military  company  in  the  base- 
ment of  St.  Peter's  church,  that  the  young  Ro- 
manists had  been  armed  with  rifles,  and  that 
ammunition  was  being  stored  stealthily  and  by 
night  under  the  very  altar! — and  this  by  order 
from  the  Vatican,  where  a  gigantic  plot  was 
brewing  to  seize  the  New  World  for  the  Pope  !— 
then  it  was  shrewdly  observed  by  those  who  held 
the  rumors  to  be  truth  that  Father  Flynn  did 
have  the  look  of  a  conspirator  and  that  he  walked 
with  a  military  ease  and  swing. 

The  priest  and  his  flock  denied  the  charges 
with  indignant  eloquence,  but  without  con- 
vincing men  like  Shears,  who  argued  that  the 
guilty  were  ever  eager  to  deny.  Shears  himself 
was  of  no  persuasion,  religious  or  otherwise,  but 
belonged  by  nature  to  the  great  party  of  the 
Opposition,  whose  village  champion  he  was, 
whether  the  issue  was  the  paving  of  a  street  or  a 
weightier  matter  like  the  one  in  hand,  of  pro- 
tecting the  nation,  as  he  said,  from  the  treason 

152 


A.  P.  A. 

of  its  citizens  and  the  machinations  of  a  decaying 
power  eager  to  regain  its  ancient  sway!  He 
was  a  lawyer  by  profession,  but  one  whose  time 
hung  heavily  on  his  hands,  and,  frequenting 
village  shops  where  others  like  him  gathered 
daily  to  argue  and  expound,  he  would  hold  forth 
glibly  on  any  theme,  the  chief  and  awe-inspiring 
quality  of  his  eloquence  being  an  array  of  for- 
midable statistics,  culled  Heaven  knows  where, 
but  which  few  who  listened  had  the  knowledge 
or  temerity  to  oppose.  He  was  now  brimming 
with  figures  concerning  Rome  —  ancient,  medi- 
aeval, or  modern  Rome:  "Gentlemen,  you  may 
take  your  choice;  I'm  your  man."  He  was 
armed  also,  by  way  of  climax  and  reserve,  should 
statistics  fail  to  convince  his  auditors,  with  some 
strange  stories  having  a  spicy  flavor  of  Boccaccio, 
which  he  told  in  a  lowered  voice  as  illustrations 
of  what  had  been  and  what  might  be  again 
should  priests  prevail. 

To  hear  him  pronounce  the  Eternal  City's 
name  was  itself  ominous.  His  mouth,  always 
a  large  one,  expanded  visibly  as  he  boomed  out 
"R-rome!"  discharging  it  as  from  a  cannon's 
muzzle,  and  with  such  significance  and  effect 
that  many  otherwise  sanguine  men  began  to 


Miss    Primrose 

suspect  that  there  might  be  truth  in  his  solemn 
warnings.  Lights  had  been  seen  in  St.  Peter's 
church  at  night !  Catholic  youths  did  hold  some 
kind  of  drill  there  on  certain  week-day  evenings ! 
And,  lastly,  it  was  pointed  out,  Father  Flynn 
himself  had  ceased  denials! 

"And  why?"  Shears  asked.  "Why,  gentle- 
men? I'll  tell  ye! — /'//  tell  ye! — orders  from 
R-rome!  You  mark  my  words — orders  from 
Rome!" 

Apprehension  grew.  A  society  was  formed, 
with  Shears  at  it's  head,  to  protect  the  village, 
and  assist,  if  need  be,  the  State  itself.  Meetings 
were  held — secret  and  extraordinary  sessions— 
in  the  Odd  Fellow's  Block.  Watches  were  set 
on  the  priest's  house  and  on  St.  Peter's.  Reso- 
lute men  stood  nightly  in  the  shrubbery  near  the 
church  lest  guns  and  cartridges  should  be  added 
to  the  stores  already  there.  Zealous  Protestant 
matrons  of  the  neighborhood  supplied  hot  coffee 
to  the  midnight  sentinels.  All  emergencies  had 
been  provided  for.  At  a  given  signal  —  three 
pistol-shots  in  quick  succession,  and  the  same 
repeated  at  certain  intervals — the  Guards  of  Lib- 
erty would  assemble,  armed,  and  march  at  once  in 
two  divisions,  a  line  of  skirmishers  under  Tommy 
'54 


A.  P.  A.  I 

Morgan,  the  light-weight  champion  of  Grassy 
Fordshire,  followed  by  the  main  body  in  com- 
mand of  Shears.  No  one,  however,  was  to  fire  a 
shot,  Shears  said — "not  a  shot,  gentlemen,  till 
you  can  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes.  Remember 
your  forefathers!" 

Every  night  now  half  the  town  pulled  down 
its  curtains  and  opened  doors  with  the  gravest 
caution. 

"Who's  there?" 

"Peters,  you  fool." 

"Oh,  come  in,  Peters.  I  thought  it  might 
be—" 

"  I  know:  you  thought  it  might  be  the  Pope." 

It  was  considered  wise  to  take  no  chances. 
Assassination,  it  was  widely  known,  had  ever 
been  a  favorite  method  with  conspirators,  espe- 
cially at  Rome,  and  Shears  made  it  plain,  in  the 
light  of  history,  that  "the  vast  fabric,"  as  he 
loved  to  call  the  Romish  world,  was  composed  of 
men  who,  certain  of  absolution,  would  murder 
their  dearest  friends  if  so  commanded  by  cipher 
orders  from  the  Holy  See! 

Meanwhile,  in  Grassy  Ford,  friendships  of  years 
were  crumbling.  Neighbors  passed  each  other 
without  a  word ;  some  sneered,  some  jeered,  some 


Miss    Primrose 

quarrelled  openly  in  the  street,  and  there  were 
fisticuffs  at  Riley's,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  civil 
strife  some  one  remembered — Shears  himself,  no 
doubt — that  Dago  pictures  hung  shamelessly  on 
the  walls  of  a  public  school-room! 

"Michael  the  Angelo"  had  been  a  Catholic! 

What  if  Letitia  Primrose  were  the  secret  ally 
of  the  Pope  !  .  .  . 

"But  she's  not  a  Catholic,"  said  one. 

"She's  Episcopalian,"  said  another. 

"What's  the  difference?"  inquired  a  third. 

"Mighty  little,  7  can  tell  ye,"  said  Colonel 
Shears.  "The  thing's  worth  seein'  to." 

A  knock  on  Letitia 's  door  that  afternoon  was 
so  peremptory  that  she  answered  it  in  haste  and 
some  trepidation,  yet  was  not  more  surprised  by 
the  sudden  summons  than  by  the  man  who 
stepped  impressively  into  the  school-room.  The 
pupils  turned  smilingly  to  David  Shears. 

"Your  father!"  they  whispered. 

It  was,  indeed,  Colonel  Samuel  Shears,  of  the 
Guards  of  Liberty.  He  declined  the  chair  Le- 
titia offered  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  majestically,  "  I  thank  you.     I 
prefer" — and  here  he  thrust  up  his  chin  by  way 
of  emphasis — "to  stand." 
156 


A.  P.  A. 

The  school  giggled. 

"Silence!"  said  Letitia.     "I  am  ashamed." 

Colonel  Shears  coolly  surveyed  the  array  of 
impudent  youths  before  him,  or  perhaps  not  so 
much  surveyed  it  as  turned  upon  it,  slowly  and 
from  side  to  side,  the  calm  defiance  of  his  massive 
jowls.  He  was  well  content  with  that  splendid 
mug  of  his,  which  he  carried  habitually  at  an 
angle  and  elevation  well  calculated  to  spread 
dismay.  Upon  occasion  he  could  render  it  the 
more  remarkable  by  a  firm  compression  of  the 
under- lip,  pulled  gravely  down  at  the  corners  into 
what  old  Butters  used  to  say  was  a  plain  attempt 
"to  out -Daniel  Webster."  The  resemblance 
ended,  however,  in  the  regions  before  described. 
His  brow,  it  should  be  stated,  did  not  attest  the 
majesty  below  them,  nor  did  his  small  eyes 
glower  with  any  brooding,  owl-like  light  of  wis- 
dom, as  he  supposed,  but  bulged  rather  with  a 
kind  of  fierce  bravado,  as  if  perpetually  he  were 
saying  to  the  world: 

"Did  I  hear  a  snicker?" 

Colonel  Shears  surveyed  the  school,  and  then, 
more  slowly,  the  pictures  on  the  walls  about 
him,  turning  sharply  and  fixing  his  gaze  upon 
Letitia. 


Miss    Primrose 

[Point  One:  She  was  clearly  ill  at  ease.] 

[Point  Two:  A  guilty  flush  had  overspread 
her  features.] 

"These  pictures — "  said  Colonel  Shears,  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  in  their  direction.  "  Who — 
if  I  may  be  so  bold" — and  here  he  raised  his 
voice  to  the  insinuating  higher  register — "who, 
may  I  inquire,  paid  for  them?" 

"I  did,  Mr.  Shears,"  Letitia  answered. 

"  A-ah !     You  paid  for  them  ?" 

"I  did." 

"Very  good,"  he  replied.  "And  now,  if  I 
may  take  the  liberty  to — ' 

"Pray  don't  apologize,  Mr.  Shears." 

The  Colonel's  crest  rose  superior  to  the  in- 
terruption. 

"If  I  may  be  permitted,"  he  said,  "to  repeat 
my  humble  question — may  I  ask,  was  it  your 
money — that  bought — the  pictures?" 

"It  was." 

"Your  own?" 

"My  own." 

"You  are  remarkably  generous,  Miss  Prim- 
rose." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Letitia,  with  increasing 
dignity.  "  You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Shears,  if  I 
158 


A.   P.   A. 

continue  with  my  classes.  After  school  I  shall 
be  at  liberty  to  discuss  the  matter.  Meanwhile, 
won't  you  be  seated?" 

Colonel  Shears  for  the  second  time  declined, 
but  asked  permission,  humbly  he  said,  to  ex- 
amine the  works  of  art  upon  the  walls.  His 
request  was  granted,  and  Letitia  proceeded  with 
her  class.  When  the  inspector  had  made  a 
critical  circuit  of  the  room,  and  not  without 
certain  significant  clearings  of  his  throat  and 
some  sharp  glances  intended  to  catch  Letitia 
unawares,  he  sniffed  the  geraniums  in  the  win- 
dow and  picked  up  a  book  lying  on  the  corner 
shelf.  He  glanced  idly  at  its  title  and — started ! 
— gasped ! — and  then,  horrified,  and  as  if  he  could 
not  believe  his  bulging  eyes,  which  fairly  pierced 
the  covers  of  the  little  volume,  he  read  aloud, 
in  a  voice  that  echoed  through  the  school-room: 

"  The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  —  by  Thomas  — 
Babington — Macaulay !" 

Letitia,  whose  back  was  turned,  jumped  at  the 
unexpected  roar  behind  her,  and  the  Colonel, 
perceiving  that  evidence  of  what  he  had  sus- 
pected, now  strode  forward  with  an  air  of  tri- 
umph, tapping  the  Lays  with  his  heavy  fore- 
finger. 


Miss    Primrose 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  his  countenance  illu- 
mined by  a  truly  terrible  smile  of  accusation, 
"but  when,  may  I  ask,  did  these  here  heathen 
tales  become  a  part  of  the  school  curriculum?" 

"They  are  not  a  part  of  it,"  replied  Letitia. 

"Ah!  They  are  not  part  of  it !  You  admit  it, 
then?  Then  may  I  ask  when  you  made  them 
a  part  of  it,  Miss  Primrose?" 

"The  stories  of  Roman  heroes—  '  Letitia  be- 
gan. 

"That  is  not  my  question.  That  is  not  my 
humble  question.  When  did  these  here  Rom- 
ish—" 

"Mr.  Shears,"  Letitia  interposed,  flushed,  but 
speaking  in  a  quiet  tone  she  sometimes  used,  and 
which  the  Colonel  might  well  have  heeded  had 
he  known  her,  "  I  observe  that  you  are  not 
familiar  with  Macaulay.  I  shall  be  pleased  to 
loan  you  the  volume,  to  take  home  with  you  and 
read  at  leisure.  You  will  find  it  charming." 

She  turned  abruptly  to  the  class  behind  her. 

"We  will  take  for  to-morrow's  lesson  the  ex- 
amples on  page  one  hundred  and  thirty-three." 

The  Colonel  glared  a  moment  at  the  stiff  little 
back  before  him,  and  then  at  the  book,  which 
he  slipped  resolutely  into  his  pocket.  A  dozen 
1 60 


At    P*  At  / 

strides  brought  him  to  the  door,  where  he  turned 
grandly  with  his  hand  upon  the  knob. 

"I  bid  you,"  he  said,  with  a  fine,  ironical 
lowering  of  the  under-lip,  and  bowing  slightly, 
"good-day,  ma'am,"  and  the  door  closed  noisily 
behind  him.  There  was  a  tittering  among  the 
desks.  Young  David  Shears,  red  -  faced  and 
scowling,  dropped  his  eyes  before  his  school- 
mates' gaze.  Letitia  tapped  sharply  on  her  bell. 

That  evening  the  president  of  the  school- 
board  called  and  talked  long  and  earnestly  with 
Letitia  in  our  parlor.  Mr.  Roach  was  a  furniture 
dealer  by  trade,  a  leading  citizen  by  profession — 
a  tight,  little,  sparrow-like  man,  who  had  risen 
by  dint  of  much  careful  eying  of  the  social  and 
political  weather  to  a  place  of  honor  in  the  vil- 
lage councils.  He  was  considered  safe  and  con- 
servative, which  was  merely  another  way  of 
saying  that  he  never  committed  himself  on  any 
question,  public  or  private,  till  he  had  learned 
which  way  the  wind  was  blowing.  He  smiled 
a  good  deal,  said  nothing  that  anybody  could 
remember,  and  voted  with  the  majority.  Out 
of  gratitude  the  majority  had  rewarded  him,  and 
he  -was  now  the  custodian  of  our  youth — the 
161 


Miss    Primrose 

sentinel,  alert  and  fearful  of  the  slightest  shadow, 
starting  even  at  the  sound  of  his  own  footfall 
on  the  Ramparts  of  the  Republic,  as  Colonel 
Shears  once  called  our  public  schools.  He  had 
come,  therefore,  under  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
but  out  of  kindness,  as  he  himself  explained,  to 
advise  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend — and  in  a 
voice  so  low  and  cautious  that  Dove,  seated  in 
the  room  beyond,  heard  nothing  but  a  soothing 
murmur  in  response  to  Letitia's  spirited  but  re- 
spectful tones.  In  departing,  however,  he  was 
heard  to  say : 

"  Oh,  by-the-way — er — I  think  you  had  better 
not  mention  my  calling,  Miss  Primrose.  Better 
not  mention  it,  I  guess.  It — er — hum — might 
do  harm,  you  know.  You  understand." 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Letitia.  "Good-night." 
When  the  door  was  closed  she  turned  to  Dove. 

"What  do  you  think  that  little — that  man 
wants?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"  Wants  me  to  take  down  all  my  pictures — " 

"Your  pictures!" 

"Yes — and  remove  all  books  but  text-books 
from  the  school-room.  And  listen:  he  says  my 
geraniums  —  fancy!  my  poor  little  red  gera- 

162 


Ai #        1     •       <A t 

niums !  —  are  '  not  provided  for  in  the  cur- 
riculum." 

"The  curriculum!"  cried  Dove,  hysterically. 

"The  curriculum,"  replied  Letitia,  without 
a  smile.  "Do  you  know  what  I  asked  him?" 
She  leaned  her  chin  upon  her  hands  and  gazed  at 
Dove's  laughing  face  across  the  table.  "  Do  you 
know  what  I  asked  that  man?" 

"No." 

"I  asked  him  if  Samuel  Luther  Shears  was 
provided  for  in  the  curriculum." 

"You  didn't  say  Luther,  Letitia!" 

"I  did— I  said  Luther." 

"Darling!    And  what  did  he  say  to  that?" 

Letitia  smiled. 

"What  could  he  say,  my  love?" 


VI 


TRUANTS    IN   ARCADY 

HE  excitement  vanished  as  it  had 
come,  in  our  tranquil  air.  A  few 
keen  April  nights  had  been  suffi- 
cient for  the  sentinels  in  the  lilac- 
bushes,  who  wearied  of  yawning 
at  St.  Peter's  silent  and  gloomy  walls.  Their 
ardor  and  the  matrons'  midnight  coffee  cooling 
together,  they  were  withdrawn,  and  the  Guards 
themselves,  though  they  had  no  formal  mus- 
tering-out,  forgot  their  fears  and  countersigns 
and  met  no  more.  Friendships  were  renewed. 
Neighbors  nodded  again  across  their  fences. 
Protestant  housewives  dropped  Catholic- vended 
sugar  into  their  tea,  and  while  there  were  men 
like  Shears,  who  still  in  dreams  saw  candles  burn- 
ing, St.  Peter's  arsenal  became  a  quiet  parish 
church  again. 

Untouched  by  the  whirlwind's  passing,  Le- 
164 


Truants    in  Arcady        / 

titia's  window-garden  went  on  blooming  red,  her 
pictures  still  hung  defiantly  on  the  walls,  and 
classic  fiction  tempted  our  youth  to  her  corner 
shelf.  Colonel  Shears,  however,  in  that  single 
visit  to  the  school-room,  had  found  new  texts  for 
his  loquacity,  and,  our  courts  failing  as  usual  to 
furnish  him  with  sufficient  cases  to  engross  his 
mind,  he  devoted  himself  with  new  ardor  to  our 
public  welfare,  and  recalled  eloquently,  to  those 
who  had  time  to  listen,  the  little,  old,  red  school- 
house  of  their  youth,  the  simpler  methods  of  the 
old  school-masters,  who  had  no  fads  or  foibles 
beyond  the  birch,  and  who  achieved,  he  said — 
witness  his  hearers,  to  say  nothing  of  his  hum- 
ble self — results  to  which  the  world  might  point 
with'  satisfaction  if  not  with  pride.  Had  the 
modern  schools  produced  an  Abraham  Lincoln, 
he  wished  to  know  ? 

"  Not  by  a  jugful,"  was  his  own  reply.  "  You 
may  talk  about  your  kindergartens,  and  your 
special  courses,  and  your  Froebel,  and  your 
Delsarte,  and  you  may  hang  up  your  Eyetalian 
pictures  on  the  wall,  and  stick  up  geraniums  in 
your  windows  —  but  where  is  your  Abraham  ? 
That's  what  I  ask,  gentlemen.  I  tell  you,  the 
schools  they  had  when  you  and  I  were  boys — 

165 


Miss   Primrose 

gentlemen,  they  were  ragged — they  were  ragged, 
as  we  were — but  they  turned  out  men !  And  you 
mark  my  words:  there  ain't  any  old  maid  in 
Grassy  Ford,  with  all  her  ancient  classics,  and  her 
new  methods,  and  her  gimcracks  and  flower- 
pots, that  '11  ever — produce — an  Honest — Abe!" 

I  am  told  that  the  crowd  agreed  with  him 
so  heartily  and  with  such  congratulatory  delight 
that  he  was  emboldened  to  announce  himself 
then  and  there  as  a  candidate  for  the  school- 
board.  Though  he  failed  of  election,  there  was 
always  a  party  in  Grassy  Ford  opposed  to  new- 
fangled methods  in  the  schools.  Letitia  herself 
was  quite  aware  that  even  among  her  fellow- 
teachers  there  were  those  who  smiled  at  her 
geraniums,  and  there  had  been  some  criticism  of 
her  manner  of  conducting  classes.  Shears  was 
fond  of  relating  how  a  visitor  to  her  room  had 
found  a  class  in  fractions  discussing  robins'  eggs! 
Letitia  explained  the  matter  simply  enough,  but 
the  fact  remained  for  the  Colonel  to  enlarge  upon. 

"A  lesson,"  he  said,  "in  Robinson's  Complete 
Arithmetic,  page  twenty-seven,  may  end  in  some- 
body's apple-tree,  or  the  top  of  Sun  Dial,  or 
Popocatapetl,  or  Peru!  Gentlemen,  I  maintain 
that  such  dilly-dallying  is  a  subversion  of  the — 
166 


Truants    in   Arcady 

"Subversion!"  growled  old  man  Butters,  who 
still  came  out  on  sunny  days  with  the  aid  of  his 
cane.  "  I  calculate  you  mean  it's  not  right." 

"That,"  said  the  orator,  suavely,  "is  the 
meaning  I  intended  to  convey,  Mr.  Butters." 

"Well,  then,  you're  wrong,"  grumbled  the 
old  man.  "Why,  that  there  girl"  -he  called 
her  so  till  the  day  he  died,  this  side  of  ninety — 
"that  there  girl's  a  trump,  Sam  Shears,  /  tell 
ye.  She  teaches  Robinson  and  God  A'mighty, 
too!" 

Letitia  was  often  now  in  the  public  eye;  her 
teaching  was  made  a  campaign  issue,  though  all 
her  nature  shrank  from  such  contests.  It  was 
easy  to  attack  her  manner  of  instruction,  and 
sometimes  difficult  to  defend  it — it  had  been  so 
subtle  in  its  plan,  and  so  unusual  in  its  execu- 
tion, and,  moreover,  time  alone  could  disclose 
what  fruits  would  ripen  from  its  flowery  care. 
Old  Mr.  Butters  had  put  roughly  what  Dr.  Prim- 
rose himself  had  taught: 

"  Dearly  beloved,  in  the  fountains  of  learning, 
no  less  than  in  the  water-brooks,  His  lilies  blow." 

"  Wouldst  thou  love  God?"  he  asked,  in  the 
last  sermon  that  he  ever  wrote,  "  First,  love 
His  handiwork." 

167 


Miss  Primrose 

It  was  his  daughter's  motto.  It  hung  on  the 
walls  of  her  simple  chamber,  with  others  from 
her  "other  poets,"  as  she  used  to  call  them— 
little  rubrics  printed  for  her  in  red  and  gold  at 
the  "  Pide  Bull."  That  handiwork  of  God  which 
she  still  called  Grassy  Fordshire  was  so  full  of 
marvels  to  this  poet's  daughter,  there  were  so 
many  flowers  in  it,  the  birds  there  sang  so  blithe- 
ly, its  waters  ran  with  such  tremulous  messages 
echoed  by  woods  and  whispered  by  meadow- 
grasses,  its  skies,  melting  into  glowing  promises 
in  the  west,  shone  thereafter  with  such  jewelled 
truths,  she  could  hold  no  text-books  higher  than 
her  Lord's. 

It  was  not  mere  duty  that  drew  her  morn 
after  morn,  year  after  year,  to  the  red  -  brick 
school-house.  All  the  tenderness,  all  those  eager 
hopes  and  fears  which  she  lavished  so  upon  her 
labor,  meant  life  and  love  to  her,  for  she  truly 
loved  them — those  troops  of  laughing,  heedless 
children,  passing  like  flocks  of  birds,  stopping 
with  her  for  a  little  twittering  season  to  seize 
her  bounty  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  fly  on  gay- 
ly  and  forget. 

.  It  may  be  that  I  write  prejudiced  in  her  favor, 
but  I  write  as  one  knowing  the  dream  of  a  wom- 

168 


Truants    in   Arcady 

an's  lifetime  to  set  those  young  feet  straight  in 
pleasant  paths,  to  open  those  wondering  eyes 
to  the  beauty  of  an  ancient  world  about  them, 
in  every  leaf  of  it,  and  wing — in  the  earth  below 
and  the  sky  above  it,  and  there  not  only  in  the 
flawless  azure,  but  in  the  rain-clouds'  gloom. 

"Dark  days  are  also  beautiful,"  she  used  to 
tell  them.  "  Had  you  thought  of  that  ?" 

They  had  not  thought  of  it.  It  was  one  of 
those  subtler  things  which  text-books  do  not 
say;  but  Letitia  taught  them,  and  a  woman  of 
Grassy  Ford,  when  sore  bereft,  once  said  to  me: 
"Dark  days,  doctor,  are  also  beautiful.  Miss 
Primrose  told  us  that,  when  we  went  to  school 
to  her.  It  was  of  clouds  she  spoke,  but  I  re- 
membered it — and  now  I  know." 

"Oh,  Miss  Primrose,"  Johnny  Murray  used  to 
say.  "  Do  you  remember  when  I  went  to  school 
to  you?  Do  you  remember  where  I  sat — there 
by  the  window?  Well,  it's  awfully  funny,  but 
do  you  know,  I  never  add  or  multiply  or  sub- 
tract but  I  smell  geraniums." 

Perhaps,  the  Colonel  would  reply,  that  was 
why  Johnny  Murray  deserted  the  ledgers  he 
was  set  to  keep — the  scent  of  the  flowers  in  them 
proved  too  strong  for  him.  It  may  be  so,  for 

169 


Miss    Primrose 

little  things  count  so  surely ;  it  may  be  the  rea- 
son he  is  to-day  a  sun-browned  farmer  instead 
of  a  lily-white  clerk  in  his  father's  store.  From 
the  geraniums  in  a  school-room  window  to  a 
thousand  peach-trees  blooming  in  a  valley  is  a 
long  journey,  but  it  was  for  just  such  journeys 
that  Letitia  taught,  and  not  merely  for  that 
shorter  one  which  led  through  her  petty  school- 
room to  the  grade  above. 

Letitia  tells  me  that  sitting  there  at  her  higher 
desk  above  those  rows  of  heads,  she  used  to 
think  of  them  as  flowers,  and  of  her  school-room 
as  a  garden.  Often  then  it  would  come  to  her 
how  pleasant  a  task  it  was  to  tend  the  roses 
there  —  golden  -  haired  Laura  Vane,  and  Alice 
Bishop,  and  Isabel  Walton,  and  handsome,  black- 
eyed  Tommy  Willis,  whose  pranks  are  famous 
in  Grassy  Fordshire  still;  then,  at  the  doting 
thought  of  them,  her  heart  would  smite  her,  and 
she  would  turn  to  those  other  homelier  flowers. 
It  must  have  been  in  some  such  moment  of  re- 
pentance that  Susan  Leary,  chancing  to  raise 
her  eyes  to  her  adored  school-mistress,  found 
Letitia  smiling  so  amiably  upon  her  that  the  girl 
blushed,  and  from  that  hour  grew  more  mind- 
ful of  her  scolding  looks ;  her  freckled  face  was 

170 


Truants   in  Arcady 

scrubbed  quite  glossy  after  that,  her  dress  was 
neater,  her  ribbons  tied,  till  by-and-by,  to  Le- 
titia's  wonder  and  reward,  she  found  in  that 
beaming  Irish  face  upturned  to  her,  color  and 
fragrance  for  her  very  soul. 

Young  Peter  Bauer  was  a  German  sprout 
transplanted  steeragewise  to  a  corner  of  the 
garden,  and  slow  in  budding,  his  face  as  blank 
as  the  blackboard-wall  he  grew  beside ;  but  one 
fine  morning,  at  a  single  question  in  the  B  geog- 
raphy, it  burst  into  roseate  bloom. 

"Teacher,  teacher,  I  know  dot!  Suabia  ist 
in  Deutschland.  Mein  vater  ist  in  Deutschland! 
Ich  bin—" 

And  after  that  Peter  was  a  poppy  on  Friday 
afternoons,  reading  essays  on  his  fatherland. 
Thus,  honest  gardener  that  Letitia  was,  she 
trained  and  pruned,  disdaining  nothing  because 
of  weediness,  believing  that  what  would  bear  a 
leaf  would  bear  a  flower  as  well.  To  leave  at 
four  o'clock,  to  return  at  nine  and  find  one  open 
which  had  been  shut  before! — is  it  not  the  gar- 
dener's morning  joy  ? 

It  was  not  alone  the  plants  which  refused  to 
grow  for  her  that  caused  her  pain.  These  at 
least  she  had  never  loved,  however  patiently 

171 


Miss    Primrose 

she  had  cared  for  them.  There  were  wayward 
beauties  in  her  garden  who  on  tenderer  stalks 
bore  longer  thorns.  She  learned,  in  her  way,  the 
lesson  mothers  learn  in  theirs,  who  sometimes 
love  and  toil  and  sacrifice  unceasingly,  and  wait, 
years  or  forever,  for  reward. 

"Remember,  Miss  Primrose,  you  are  not  a 
mother,"  snapped  a  certain  sharp- tongued  ma- 
tron of  our  town  who  had  disagreed  with  her. 

"Oh,"  said  Letitia,  "but  I  have  loved  so 
many  children.  I  am  a  kind  of  mother." 

"Mother!"  cried  the  matron. 

"Yes,"  Letitia  answered.  "I  am  a  mother — 
without  a  child." 

Had  they  been  her  children,  it  had  been  easier 
to  forgive  their  thoughtlessness.  Offended  some- 
times by  her  discipline,  they  said  plain  things 
of  her  lack  of  pretty  youth;  they  whispered  lies 
of  her;  she  shed  some  tears,  I  know,  over  those 
scribblings  which  she  intercepted  or  found  for- 
gotten on  the  school  -  room  floor.  Then  her 
garden  was  the  abode  of  shadows,  her  efforts 
vain  there.  Sometimes,  for  solace,  she  sought 
out  Dove,  but  the  habit  of  lonely  thinking  had 
grown  upon  her;  it  had  been  enforced  by  her 
maidenhood . 

172 


Truants    in   Arcady 

While  I  am  not  a  herb -doc  tor  by  diploma, 
I  am  one  by  faith,  simples  have  wrought  such 
speedy  cures  in  my  own  gray  hours,  and  Grassy- 
Fordshire  is  so  green  with  them  that  a  walk 
by  Troublesome  or  a  climb  on  Sun  Dial  is  in 
itself  a  marvellous  remedy,  aromatic  and  ano- 
dyne. In  my  drives  to  patients  beyond  the 
town,  I  have  been  seized  suddenly  by  a  kind  of 
fever.  There  are  no  pills  for  it,  or  powders,  or 
any  drugs  in  all  the  bottles  on  my  shelves — but 
a  jointed  fishing-rod  and  line  kept  in  the  bottom 
of  a  doctor's  buggy  is  efficacious  if  applied  in 
time.  Often  when  that  spell  was  on  me  I  have 
turned  Pegasus  towards  the  nearest  stream,  and 
while  he  nibbled,  one  hour  on  a  scented  bank, 
fish  or  not — sixty  drops  from  the  grass-green 
phial  of  a  summer's  day — has  restored  my  soul. 
Clattering  home  again  at  double  -  quick,  Peg- 
asus's  ears  on  end,  his  nostrils  quivering,  my 
buggy  thumping  over  thank  -  you  -  ma'ams,  I 
would  not  be  a  city  leech  for  a  brown-stone  front 
and  a  brass  name-plate  upon  my  door. 

In  some  such  pleasant  hooky-hour  in  spring 
I  had  cast,  sullenly  enough,  but  was  now  hum- 
ming to  myself,  in  tune  with  Troublesome,  when 
a  twig  snapped  behind  the  willows.  Some  cow, 


Miss    Primrose 

thought  I,  and  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  stream. 
Another  twig:  I  turned  inquiringly.  There,  by 
the  water-side,  and  all  unmindful  of  my  presence, 
was  Letitia  Primrose. 

I  bit  my  pipe  clean  through.  I  would  have 
called  at  once,  but  something  stopped  me.  She 
stood  quietly  by  the  brook,  gazing  at  the  stones 
on  which  it  played  and  sang.  Her  shoulders 
drooped  a  little,  her  face  seemed  tired  and  pale. 
She  turned  and  saw  me. 

"Bertram!"     Her  face  was  guilty. 

"  Hello!"  I  said,  lighting  my  pipe. 

"You  here,  Bertram?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  casting  again.  "How  is  it 
you're  here?  No  school,  Letitia?" 

She  hesitated. 

"No  patients,  doctor?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"No  patients  dying,"  I  retorted.  We  eyed 
each  other. 

"I  had  a  headache,"  she  said,  meekly,  seat- 
ing herself  upon  a  log.  "And  I  have  a  substi- 
tute." 

"There  are  other  doctors,"  I  remarked. 

Suddenly  she  rose. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I'll  just  stroll  that  way, 
if  you  don't  mind,  Bertram." 


Truants    in   Arcady 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied.  "I  know  how  you 
feel,  Letitia.  That's  why  I  come  here." 

"Do  you?"  she  asked.  "Then  this  isn't  your 
first—" 

"Nor  my  twentieth  offence,"  I  replied,  laugh- 
ing. She  sighed. 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  It's  my  first — really.  I 
feel  like  a  criminal." 

I  pointed  with  my  broken  pipe-stem. 

"You'll  find  the  best  path  there,"  I  said. 

"I  think  I'll  stay,  if  you  don't  mind,  Ber- 
tram." 

"Stay,  by  all  means,"  I  replied,  and  went  on 
fishing.  Letitia  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"It's  hard  always  trying  to  be — dominant," 
she  remarked,  "isn't  it?" 

"Why,  I  rather  like  it,"  I  replied. 

"You  are  a  man,"  she  said.  "Men  do,  I 
believe.  But  I,  I  get  so  tired  sometimes" — she 
bit  her  lip — "of  being  master."  She  laughed 
nervously.  "That's  why  I  ran  away." 

Presently  she  went  on  speaking. 

"If  we  could  only  be  surrounded  by  such 
things  as  these,  always,  how  serene  our  lives 
might  be.  Don't  smile.  It's  my  old  sermon  of 
environment,  I  know ;  but  why  are  you  here  ? — 

i7S 


Miss    Primrose 

and  why  am  I?  I  try  my  best  to  keep  the 
beautiful  before  my  children's  eyes,  to  tempt 
them  into  lovely  thinking.  Bertram,  I  believe, 
heart  and  soul,  in  the  power  of  beauty.  I  am 
so  sure  of  it,  I  know  I  should  be  a  stronger 
teacher  if  I  were  young  and  beautiful  myself — 
or  even  pretty,  like  Helen  White." 

"She  is  a  mere  wax  doll,"  I  said. 

"But  children  like  pretty  faces,"  she  replied. 
" Look!  You  have  a  fish!" 

It  was  a  snag,  but  while  I  was  busy  with  it 
she  rose. 

"Wait,"  I  said,  "I'll  drive  you  home." 

"No,  thank  you,  Bertram.  I'd  rather  walk. 
My  head  is  better  now.  Good-bye." 

I  did  not  urge  her.  When  she  had  gone  I 
picked  up  a  slip  of  paper  from  the  path  where 
she  had  passed.  It  was  a  crumpled  half  of  a  blue- 
ruled  leaf  torn  from  some  pupil's  tablet,  and, 
scrawled  upon  it  in  a  school-girl's  hand,  I  read : 

"  DEAR  EDNA,— Don't  mind  the  homely  old  thing. 
Everybody  says  she's  fifty  if  she's  a  day.  No  one  would 
marry  her,  so  she  had  to  teach  school." 

It  was  written,  Dove  told  me  afterwards,  by 
one  of  the  rose-girls  in  Letitia's  garden. 

176 


VII 

PEGGY   NEAL 

Y  aunt  Miranda,  who  was  wise  in 
many  things,  used  to  maintain  that 
a  woman  ceased  to  be  charming 
only  when  she  thought  she  had 
I  ceased  to  be  so ;  that  age  had  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  the  matter  —  and  so 
saying,  she  would  smile  so  bewitchingly  upon 
me  that  I  was  forced  inevitably  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  she  bore  her  fifty  years  much  better 
than  many  women  their  paltry  score.  Letitia 
was  not  so  sanguine;  she  laid  more  stress  upon 
the  spring-time.  I  have  heard  her  say  that 
there  was  nothing  lovelier  in  the  world  than  a 
fair  young  girl  full  of  pure  spirits  as  a  rose-cup 
full  of  dew.  She  would  turn  in  the  street  to 
look  at  one ;  she  liked  them  to  be  about  her ;  her 
own  face  grew  more  winning  in  such  comrade- 
ship, and  when  she  was  given  a  higher  school- 

177 


Miss  Primrose 

room,  where  the  girls  wore  skirts  to  their  shoe- 
tops  and  put  up  their  hair,  it  was  an  almost 
childish  pleasure  which  she  displayed.  It  was 
this  very  preference  for  exquisite  maidenhood 
that  explained  her  fondness  for  Peggy  Neal.  It 
was  not  scholarship  which  had  won  the  teacher's 
heart,  for  Peggy  was  an  indifferent  student,  as 
Letitia  herself  confessed,  but  she  was  a  plump 
and  brown-eyed,  pink-cheeked  country  girl  who 
always  smiled  and  who  had  that  grace  of  inno- 
cence and  bloom  of  health  which  are  the  witchery 
of  youth.  She  was  a  favorite  with  school-boys, 
a  belle  of  theirs  at  straw-rides,  dances,  and  taffy- 
pulls,  and  other  diversions  of  our  Grassy  Ford- 
shire  teens,  where,  however,  her  gentle  ways,  her 
readiness  to  follow  rather  than  to  lead,  her  utter 
incapability  of  envy  or  spiteful  speech  made  her 
beloved  of  girls  as  well.  She  was  the  amiable 
maiden  whom  men  look  twice  at,  yet  whose  sis- 
ters are  never  quite  jealous,  holding  her  charm 
to  be  mere  pinkish  prettiness  and  beneath  the 
envy  of  superior  minds  like  theirs.  Peggy  was 
the  sort  of  girl  Letitia  had  never  been,  roseate 
with  the  kind  of  youth  Letitia  had  never  known, 
and  it  enchanted  her  as  a  joy  and  beauty  which 
had  been  denied. 

178 


Peggy    Neat 

Neal,  the  father,  was  a  drunken  farmer,  whose 
wife  was  chiefly  responsible  for  the  crops  they 
planted,  and  who,  being  strong  and  abler  than 
her  shiftless  spouse,  was  usually  to  be  seen  in  the 
field  and  garden  directing  and  aiding  the  hired 
man.  Peggy  was  the  only  child.  She  helped 
her  mother  in  the  kitchen,  fed  the  chickens, 
skimmed  the  milk,  sold  the  butter,  and  let  her 
father  in  o'  nights.  He  was  a  by- word  in  the 
village.  Occasional  revivalists  prayed  for  him 
publicly  upon  their  knees,  but  without  effect. 
His  wife  could  have  told  them  how  futile  that 
method  was;  she  had  tried  it  herself  in  more 
hopeful  years.  She  had  tried  rage  also,  but  it 
left  her  bitter  and  sick  of  life,  and  Pat  the  drunk- 
er; so  wisely  she  had  fallen  back  upon  resigna- 
tion, though  not  of  the  apathetic  sort,  and  had 
made  herself  mistress  of  the  farm,  where  her 
husband  was  suffered  to  spend  his  nights  if  he 
chose,  or  was  able  to  walk  so  far  from  the  tavern 
where  he  apent  his  days. 

For  Peggy  the  mother  had  better  dreams. 
She  knew  that  the  girl  was  beautifu',  and  she 
knew  also  what  beauty,  however  born,  might 
win  for  itself  in  a  wider  world  than  her  own  had 
been.  Peggy,  therefore,  was  to  finish  school, 


Miss   Primrose 

however  the  farm  might  suffer  by  her  absence 
and  the  expense  of  such  simple  dress  as  her 
village  friendships  would  require.  Nature  might 
marry  Thrift  or  Money,  thought  the  hard-faced 
woman  in  the  faded  sunbonnet;  silk  and  lace 
and  a  new  environment  might  make  a  queen  of 
this  beggar-maid,  her  last  hope  in  a  life  of  hope- 
lessness. Proudly  she  watched  her  daughter 
flower  into  village  fame,  guarding  that  fairness 
with  jealous  eyes. 

"Daughter,"  she  would  say,  "where  is  your 
hat?" 

"Mamma,  I  like  the  sun." 

"  Nonsense.  .  Go  straight  and  fetch  it  and  put 
it  on.  Do  you  want  to  be  speckled  like  your 
ugly  old  mother- hen?" 

It  was  a  care  and  pride  that  would  have  turned 
another  and  far  less  lovely  head  than  Peggy's, 
yet  in  spite  of  it  this  country  school-girl  ripened 
sweetly.  Driving  on  country  visits  I  usecl  to 
meet  her  by  the  way,  walking  easily  and  hum- 
ming to  herself  the  while,  her  books  and  luncheon 
swinging  at  her  side — a  perfect  model  for  ro- 
mantic painters  who  run  to  milk-maids,  or,  as 
Letitia  used  to  say,  the  veritable  Phyllis  of  old 
English  song. 

180 


Peggy    Neal 

The  mother  rose  at  dawn;  she  toiled  by  sun- 
light and  by  lamplight;  her  face  grew  haggard, 
her  figure  gaunter,  her  voice  sharper  with  bitter 
irony,  her  heart  harder  save  in  that  one  lone 
corner  which  was  kept  soft — solely  for  her  child. 
Peggy,  I  believe,  was  the  only  living  thing  she 
smiled  upon.  Neighbors  dreaded  her  cutting 
tongue ;  her  husband  was  too  dazed  to  care. 

Time  went  by.  In  spite  of  that  stern  resolve 
in  the  woman's  nature,  and  all  her  labor  and 
frugal  scheming,  what  with  the  failure  of  crops 
and  her  lack  of  knowledge  of  their  better  care, 
and  an  old  encumbrance  whose  interest  could  be 
barely  met  on  the  quarter-days  that  cast  their 
shadows  on  the  whole  round  year,  the  farm 
declined.  Letitia's  gifts  from  her  own  wardrobe 
were  all  that  kept  Peggy  Neal  in  school.  It  was 
a  word  from  Letitia  also  that  raised  the  cloud  on 
the  mother's  face  when  despair  was  darkest  there. 
Might  not  summer-boarders,  Letitia  asked,  bear 
a  surer,  more  golden  harvest  than  those  worn- 
out  fields? 

"Summer-boarders!"  cried  Mrs.  Neal,  with  a 
grim  irony  in  her  voice.  But  she  repeated  it — 
"Summer-boarders,"  in  a  milder  tone,  and  the 
plan  was  tried. 

181 


Miss    Primrose 

The  first  ones  came  in  June.  They  descended 
noisily  from  the  fast  express,  lugging  bags  and 
fishing-rods  and  guns.  Some  of  them  stared; 
some  young  ones  whistled  softly  at  the  fair 
driver  of  that  old  two-seated  buckboard  wait- 
ing to  bear  them  to  the  farm.  They  greeted 
effusively — for  the  daughter's  sake  —  the  hard- 
mouthed  woman  who  met  them  at  the  door, 
striving  her  best  to  smile  a  welcome.  She  it 
was  who  showed  them  their  plain  but  well- 
scrubbed  chambers,  while  their  minds  were  at  the 
barn. 

Pastures  and  orchards  bore  strange  fruit  that 
summer:  white-faced  city  clerks  in  soft,  pink 
shirts  smoked  cigarettes  and  browned  in  the  sun ; 
freckled  ladies  set  up  their  easels  in  the  cow-lot ; 
high-school  professors  asked  one  another  puzzling 
questions,  balanced  cannily  on  the  topmost  rail 
of  the  Virginia  fence,  and  all — all,  that  is,  to  a 
man — helped  Peggy  carry  in  the  milk,  helped 
Peggy  churn,  helped  Peggy  bake,  helped  Peggy 
set  the  table,  and  clear  it,  and  wipe  the  dishes, 
and  set  them  safely  away  again  in  the  dim 
pantry  —  helped  Peggy  to  market,  and  Peggy 
to  church :  so  rose  her  star. 

The  mother  watched,  remembering  her  own 
182 


Peggy    Neat 

girlhood.  Its  romance,  seen  through  a  mist  of 
gloomy  years,  seemed  foolish  now.  There  might 
be  happiness  in  human  life — she  had  never 
known  any.  There  was  a  deal  of  nonsense  in 
the  world  called  love,  she  knew,  and  there  was 
a  surer  thing  called  money.  Peggy  should  wait 
for  it. 

The  mother  watched,  smiling  to  herself  sar- 
donically, secretly  well-pleased — smiling  because 
she  knew  quite  well  that  these  callow  sprigs  had 
far  less  money  than  negligees;  well-pleased  be- 
cause she  guessed  that  soon  enough  a  man  with 
both  would  be  hovering  about  sweet  Peggy's 
dairy.  It  was  a  humorous  thing  to  her  that  all 
these  city  men  should  think  it  beautiful — that 
dampish,  sunless  spot  where  the  milk-cans  stood 
waist-deep  in  cresses. 

She  kept  sharp  eyes  upon  her  daughter,  and 
farm-house  duties  filled  Peggy's  days  to  their 
very  brim.  There  must  be  no  loitering  by  star- 
light, either.  Mother  and  daughter  now  slept 
together  in  the  attic  store-room,  for  the  new 
farming  had  proved  a  prosperous  thing. 

The  summer  was  not  like  other  summers. 
There  was  life  and  gayety  up  at  Neal's:  strum- 
ming of  banjos  and  the  sound  of  laughter  and 

183 


Miss    Primrose 

singing  on  the  porch,  much  lingering  in  ham- 
mocks under  the  pine-trees,  moonlit  jaunts  in 
the  old  hay-rick,  lanterns  moving  about  the 
barn  and  dairy,  empty  bowls  on  the  buttery 
table  when  Mrs.  Neal  came  down  at  dawn,  and 
half-cut  loaves  in  the  covered  crocks. 

September  came  and  the  harvest  had  been 
gathered  in.  The  last  boarder  had  returned 
cityward.  Peggy  was  in  school  again.  One 
day,  however,  she  was  missing  from  her  classes, 
and  Letitia,  fearing  that  she  might  be  ill,  walked 
to  the  farm  after  school  was  over.  It  was  a 
pleasant  road  with  a  narrow  path  beside  it 
among  the  grasses,  and  the  day  was  cool  with 
premonitions  of  the  year's  decline. 

The  farm  seemed  silent  and  deserted.  She 
knocked  at  doors,  she  tapped  lightly  on  the 
kitchen  -  windows,  but  no  one  was  at  home. 
At  the  barn,  however,  the  horses  were  in  their 
stalls,  turning  their  heads  to  her  and  whinneying 
of  their  empty  mangers.  Surely,  she  thought, 
the  Neals  could  not  be  gone.  She  stood  awhile 
by  the  well-curb  from  which  she  could  better 
survey  the  farm:  it  lay  before  her,  field  and 
orchard,  bright  with  sunshine  and  golden-rod, 
yet  she  saw  no  moving  thing  but  the  crows  in 
184 


Peggy    Neat 

the  corn-stubble  and  the  cows  waiting  by  the 
meadow-bars.  Then  she  tried  the  dairy,  and 
there  heard  nothing  but  the  brook  whimpering 
among  the  cans  and  cresses,  and  she  turned  away. 
.  Now  a  lane  runs,  grassy  and  strewn  with  the 
wild  blackberry- vines,  through  the  Neal  farm 
to  a  back  road  into  town,  and  Letitia  chose  it 
to  vary  her  homeward  way.  It  passes  first  the 
brook,  over  a  little  hoof-worn,  trembling  bridge, 
and  then  the  vineyard,  where  the  grapes  were 
purple  that  autumn  evening.  There,  pausing  to 
regale  herself,  Letitia  heard  a  strange  sound 
among  the  trellises.  It  was  a  child  crying, 
moaning  and  sobbing  as  if  its  heart  would  break. 
For  a  moment  only  Letitia  listened  there;  then 
she  ran,  fearfully,  stumbling  in  the  heavy  loam 
between  the  rows  of  vines,  to  the  spot  from 
which  the  moaning  came.  She  found  a  girl 
crouching  on  the  earth. 

"Peggy!"    she    cried,    kneeling    beside    her. 
"  Peggy !    Are  you  hurt  ?    Peggy !    Answer  me !" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  shrank  away 
among  the  lower  leaves. 

"Oh,  what  is  the  matter?"  Letitia  begged, 
terrified,  and   gathered   Peggy  into   her  arms. 
"Tell  me!    Tell  me,  sweet!" 
185 


Miss    Primrose 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  wretched  answer.  "  Please 
— please  go  away!" 

But  Letitia  stayed,  brushing  the  dirt  from 
the  girl's  dark  hair,  kissing  her,  petting  her, 
murmuring  the  tenderest  names,  and  gently 
urging  her  to  tell.  Peggy  raised  herself  upon 
her  knees,  putting  both  hands  to  her  temples 
and  staring  wildly  with  swollen  eyes. 

"Mamma's  gone  in,  Miss  Primrose,"  she  said, 
brokenly.     "  She '11  —  she'll  tell  you.     Please  - 
please  go  away!" 

She  begged  so  piteously,  Letitia  rose. 

"  I'd  rather  stay,  Peggy ;  but  if  you  wish  it — " 

"Yes.    Please  go!" 

"I'd  rather  stay." 

"No.     Please—" 

Slowly,  and  with  many  misgivings,  Letitia 
went.  She  knocked  again  at  the  farm-house, 
but  got  no  answer,  as  before.  She  tried  the 
doors — they  were  locked,  all  of  them.  Then 
her  heart  reproached  her  and  she  hurried  back 
again  to  the  lane.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and  in 
the  vineyard  the  rows  confused  her. 

"Peggy!"  she  called,  softly. 

Her  foot  touched  a  basket  half-filled  with 
grapes. 

186 


Peggy    Neal 

"  Peggy !    Where  are  you  ?" 

She  could  hear  nothing  but  the  rustling  leaves. 

"Peggy!"  she  called.     "Peggy!" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  as  she  listened  with 
a  throbbing  heart,  she  heard  cows  lowing  at 
the  pasture -bars  —  and  the  click  of  the  farm- 
yard gate. 


VIII 


NEW    EDEN 

ETITIA'S  church,  the  last  her 
father  ever  preached  in,  is  a  little 
stone  St.  Paul's,  pine -shaded  and 
ivy-grown,  upon  a  hill-side.  There 
are  graves  about  it  in  the  lawn, 
scattered,  not  huddled  there,  and  no  paths  be- 
tween them,  only  the  soft  grass  touching  the 
very  stones.  Above  them  in  the  un trimmed 
boughs  swaying  with  every  wind,  the  wild  birds 
nest  and  sing,  so  that  death. where  Dr.  Primrose 
lies  seems  a  pleasant  dreaming. 

"Our  service,"  he  used  to  say,  "is  the  ancient 
poetry  of  reverence;"  and  every  verse  of  it 
brings  to  Letitia  memories  of  her  father  standing 
at  the  lecturn,  while  she  was  a  child  listening  in 
the  pews. 

"  I  was  very  proud  of  him,"  she  used  to  tell  us. 
"  His  sermons  were  wonderful,   I  think.     You 
188 


New   Eden 

will  say  that  I  could  not  judge  them  as  a  girl  and 
daughter,  but  I  have  read  them  since.  I  have 
them  all  in  a  box  up-stairs,  and  now  and  then 
I  take  one  out  and  read  it  to  myself,  and  all  that 
while  I  can  hear  his  voice.  They  are  better  than 
any  I  listen  to  nowadays;  they  are  far  more 
thoughtful,  fuller  of  life  and  fire  and  the  flower 
of  eloquence.  Our  ministers  are  not  so  brim- 
ming any  more." 

She  told  us  a  story  I  had  never  heard,  of  his 
earnestness  and  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  find 
words  fervent  enough  to  express  his  meaning; 
how  when  a  rich  old  merchant  of  Grassy  Ford 
confessed  to  him  a  doubt  that  there  was  a  God, 
dear  Dr.  Primrose  turned  upon  him  in  the  vil- 
lage street  where  they  walked  together  and  said, 
with  the  tears  springing  to  his  eyes : 

"Gabriel  Bond,  not  as  a  clergyman  but  as  a 
man,  I  say  to  you,  consider  for  a  moment  that 
apple -bloom  you  are  treading  on!"  It  was 
spring  and  a  bough  from  the  merchant's  garden 
overhung  the  walk  where  they  had  paused. 
"Hold  it  in  your  hand,  and  look  at  it,  and 
think,  man,  think!  Use  the  same  reason  which 
tells  you  two  and  two  make  four  —  the  same 
reason  that  made  you  rich,  Gabriel — and  tell  me, 
13  189 


Miss    Primrose 

if  you  can,  there  is  no  God!  Why,  sir — "  and 
here  Dr.  Primrose's  heart  quite  overcame  him, 
and  his  voice  broke.  "Gabriel,  you  are  not 
such  a  damned — " 

And  the  merchant,  Letitia  said,  for  it  was 
Bond  himself  who  told  her  the  story  long  after 
Dr.  Primrose's  voice  was  stilled — the  merchant, 
astounded  to  find  a  clergyman  so  like  another 
man  struggling  for  stressful  words  for  his  emo- 
tion, picked  up  the  bruised  twig  from  beneath 
his  feet  and  stuck  it  in  her  father's  coat. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  quietly,  "there's  force,  sir, 
in  what  you  say,"  and  left  Dr.  Primrose  won- 
dering on  the  walk.  But  the  next  Sunday  he 
appeared  at  church,  and  every  Sunday  for  many 
years  thereafter,  merely  explaining  to  those 
who  marvelled,  that  he  had  found  a  man. 

It  was  not  likely  that  the  daughter  of  such  a 
man  would  be  much  troubled  with  doubts  of 
what  he  had  taught  so  positively  or  what  she 
had  come  to  believe  herself ;  if  led  astray  it  would 
be  like  her  sex  in  general,  through  too  much 
faith.  While  not  obtrusive  in  her  views  of  life 
in  her  younger  years,  Letitia,  as  she  reached 
her  prime,  and  through  the  habit  of  self-depend- 
ence and  her  daily  duty  of  instructing  undevel- 

190 


Ne<w   Eden 

oped  minds,  grew  more  decisive  in  her  manner, 
more  impatient  of  opposition  to  what  she  held 
was  truth,  especially  when  it  seemed  to  her  the 
fruit  of  ignorance  or  that  spirit  of  bantering  ar- 
gument so  common  to  the  humorously  inclined. 
She  liked  humor  to  know  its  place,  she  said ;  it 
was  the  favorite  subterfuge  of  persons  champion- 
ing a  losing  cause.  In  such  discussions,  finding 
her  earnestness  useless  to  convince,  and  scorning 
to  belittle  a  theme  dear  to  her  with  resort  to  jest 
or  personalities,  she  would  sit  silenced,  but  with 
a  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  and  if  the  enemy  had 
pressed  too  sharply  on  her  orderly  retreat,  one 
would  always  know  it  by  the  tapping  of  her  foot 
upon  the  floor. 

She  was  no  mean  antagonist.  For  she  read 
not  only  those  volumes  her  father  loved,  but  the 
books  and  journals  of  the  day  as  well.  Reading 
and  theorizing  of  the  greater  world  outside  her 
little  one,  she  was  ziot  troubled  by  those  para- 
doxes which  men  meet  there,  which  cause  them 
to  falter,  doubt,  and  see  two  sides  of  questions 
where  they  had  seen  but  one,  till  they  fall  back 
lazily,  taking  their  ease  on  that  neutral  ground 
where  Humor  is  the  host,  welcoming  all  and 
favoring  none.  We  used  to  smile  sometimes  at 

191 


Miss    Primrose 

Letitia's  fervency;  we  had  our  little  jests  at 
its  expense,  but  we  knew  it  was  her  father  in  her, 
poet  and  preacher  not  dead  but  living  still.  In 
his  youth  and  prime  Dr.  Primrose  was  ever  the 
champion  of  needy  causes,  whose  name  is  legion, 
so  that  his  zeal  found  vent,  and  left  him  in  his 
decline  the  mild  old  poet  I  remember.  Would 
Letitia'be  as  mild,  I  wondered? 

"A  few  more  needy  causes,"  I  used  to  say, 
"  would  soften  that  tireless  spirit — say,  stockings 
to  darn  and  children  to  dress  for  school,  and  a 
husband  to  keep  in  order." 

"Yet  in  lieu  of  these,"  Dove  once  replied, 
"she  has  her  day's  work  and  her  church  and 
books—" 

"But  are  they  enough  for  a  woman,  do  you 
think?"  I  asked  my  wife.  We  were  standing 
together  by  Robin's  bedside,  watching  him  as 
he  slept.  Dove  said  nothing,  but  laid  her  hand 
against  his  rose-red  cheek. 

Little  by  little  we  became  aware  of  some 
subtle  change  in  our  Letitia.  She  took  less 
interest  in  the  mild  adventures  of  our  household 
world.  She  smiled  more  faintly  at  my  jests,  a 
serious  matter,  for  I  have  at  home,  like  other 
men,  some  reputation  for  a  pretty  wit  upon 

192 


New   Eden 

occasion.  It  was  a  mild  estrangement  and 
recluseness.  She  sat  more  often  in. her  room 
up-stairs.  She  was  absent  frequently  on  lonely 
walks,  sometimes  at  evening,  and  brought  home 
a  face  so  rapt,  and  eyes  with  a  look  in  them  so 
far  away  from  our  humble  circle  about  the 
reading-lamp,  we  deemed  it  wiser  to  ask  no 
questions.  For  years  it  had  been  an  old  country 
custom  of  ours,  when  we  sat  late,  to  seek  the 
pantry  before  retiring,  but  now  when  invited 
to  join  us  in  these  childish  spreads,  "  No,  thank 
you,"  Letitia  would  reply,  and  in  a  tone  so 
scrupulously  courteous  I  used  to  feel  like  the 
man  old  Butters  told  about- — a  poor,  inadvertent 
wight,  he  was,  who  had  offered  a  sandwich  to 
an  angel.  I  forget  now  how  the  story  runs, 
but  the  man  grumbled  at  his  rebuff,  and  so 
did  I. 

"  I  know,  my  dear,"  Dove  reproved  me,  "but 
you  ought  not  to  do  such  things  when  you  see 
she's  thinking." 

"Thinking!"  I  cried,  cooling  my  temper  in 
bread-and-milk.  "Is  it  thinking,  then?" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  Dove  sighed. 
"She  isn't  Letitia  any  more,  yet  for  the  life  of 
me  I  can't  tell  why.  I  never  dream  now  of 


Miss  Primrose 

disturbing  her  when  she  looks  that  way,  and  I 
cannot  even  talk  to  her  as  I  used  to  do." 

"She  isn't  well,"  I  said. 

"She  says  she  was  never  better." 

"She  may  be  troubled." 

"She  says  she  was  never  happier." 

"Well,  then,"  I  decided,  sagely,  "it  must  be 
thinking,  as  you  say." 

We  agreed  to  take  no  notice  of  what  might  be 
only  moody  crotchets  after  all ;  they  would  soon 
pass.  We  no  longer  pressed  her  to  join  our 
diversions  about  the  lamp,  but  welcomed  her  in 
the  old  spirit  when  she  came  willingly  or  of  her 
own  accord.  Yet  even  then  it  was  not  the  same : 
there  was  some  mute,  mysterious  barrier  to  the 
old,  free,  happy  intercourse.  Some  word  of 
Dove's  or  mine,  mere  foolery,  perhaps,  but 
meant  in  cheerfulness,  would  dance  out  gayly 
across  the  table  where  we  sat  at  cards,  but  slink 
back  home  again,  disgraced.  What  could  this 
discord  be?  we  asked  ourselves  —  this  strange 
impassiveness,  this  disapproval,  as  it  seemed  to 
us — negative,  but  no  less  obvious  for  that?" 

There  was  a  heaviness  in  the  air.  We  breathed 
more  freely  in  Letitia's  absence.  We  grew  self- 
conscious  in  that  mute,  accusing  presence,  which 

194 


Ne<w   Eden 

I  resented  and  my  wife  deplored.  Dove  even 
confessed  to  a  feeling  of  guiltiness,  yet  could 
remember  no  offence. 

"What  have  I  done?"  I  asked  my  wife. 

"What  have  I  done?"  asked  she. 

At  meals,  especially,  we  were  ill  at  ease.  The 
very  viands,  even  those  famous  dishes  of  Dove's 
own  loving  handiwork,  met  with  disfavor  instead 
of  praise.  Letitia  had  abandoned  meats;  now 
she  declined  Dove's  pies!  Pastry  was  innutri- 
tious,  she  declared,  meats  not  intended  for  man 
at  all,  and  even  of  green  things  she  ate  so  minc- 
ingly  that  my  little  housewife  was  in  despair. 

"What  can  I  get  for  you,  dear?"  she  would 
ask,  anxiously.  "What  would  you  like?" 

"  My  love,"  Letitia  would  reply,  flushing  with 
annoyance,  "I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  But  I'll  get  you  anything,  Letitia." 

"  I  eat  quite  enough,  my  dear,"  was  the  usual 
answer — "quite  enough,"  she  would  add,  firmly, 
"for  any  one." 

Then  Dove  would  sink  back  ruefully,  and  I, 
pitying  my  wife — I,  rebuked  but  unabashed  and 
shameless  in  my  gluttony,  would  pass  my  plate 
again. 

"Give  me,"  I  would  say,  cheerfully,  "a  third 


Miss  Primrose 

piece  of  that  excellent,  that  altogether  heavenly 
cherry-pie,  my  dear." 

It  may  sound  like  triumph,  but  was  not — 
for  Letitia  Primrose  would  ignore  me  utterly. 
"  Have  you  read,"  she  would  ask,  sipping  a  little 
water  from  her  glass,  "  New  Eden,  by  Mrs.  Lord  ?" 

We  still  walked  mornings  to  the  school-house, 
still  talked  together  as  we  walked,  but  not  as 
formerly — not  of  the  old  subjects,  which  was 
less  to  be  wondered  at,  nor  yet  of  new  ones  with 
the  old  eloquence.  I  felt  constrained.  There 
was  a  new  note  in  Letitia 's  comments  on  the 
way  the  world  was  going,  though  I  could  not 
define  its  pitch.  She  spoke,  I  thought,  less 
frankly  than  of  old,  but  much  more  carelessly. 
She  seemed  more  listless  in  her  attitude  towards 
matters  that  had  roused  her,  heart  and  soul,  in 
other  days.  Me  she  ignored  at  pleasure;  could 
it  be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  she  was  de- 
termined to  renounce  the  whole  round  world  as 
well? 

It  was  I  who  had  first  resented  this  alienation, 
but  it  was  Dove  who  could  not  be  reconciled 
to  a  change  so  inscrutable  and  unkind.  Time, 
I  argued,  was  sufficient  reason;  age,  I  reminded 
her,  cast  strange  shadows  before  its  coming; 

196 


Ne<w   Eden 

our  friend  was  growing  old — perhaps  like  her 
father  —  before  her  time.  But  Dove  was 
alarmed :  Letitia  was  pale,  she  said ;  her  face  was 
wan — there  was  a  drawn  look  in  the  lines  of  the 
mouth  and  eyes;  even  her  walk  had  lost  its 
buoyancy. 

"True,"  I  replied,  "but  even  that  is  not  un- 
natural, my  dear.  Besides,  she  eats  nothing; 
she  starves  herself." 

My  wife  rose  suddenly. 

"Bertram,"  she  said,  earnestly,  "you  must 
stop  this  folly.  I  have  tried  my  best  to  tempt 
her  out  of  it,  but  I  have  failed.  It  is  you  she  is 
fondest  of.  It  is  you  who  must  speak." 

"  I  fear  it  will  do  no  good,"  I  answered,  "  but  I 
will  try."  I  have  had  use  for  courage  in  my 
lifetime,  both  as  doctor  and  man,  but  I  here 
confess  to  a  trembling  of  the  heart-strings,  a 
childish  faintness,  a  lily  cowardice  in  these  en- 
counters, these  trifling  domestic  sallies  and  am- 
buscades. Nor  have  I  strategy;  I  know  but  one 
method  of  attack,  and  its  sole  merit  is  the  little 
time  it  wastes. 

"  Letitia,"  I  said,  next  morning,  as  we  walked 
town  ward,  "you  are  ill." 

"Nonsense,  Bertram,"  she  replied. 
197 


Miss    Primrose 

"You  are  ill,"  I  replied,  firmly.  "You  are 
pale  as  a  ghost.  Your  hands  tremble.  Your 
walk—" 

"I  was  never  stronger  in  my  life,"  she  inter- 
posed, and  as  if  she  had  long  expected  this  little 
crisis  and  was  prepared  for  it.  "  Never,  I  think, 
have  I  felt  so  tranquil,  so  serene.  My  mind — " 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  your  mind, ' '  I  said.  "  I 
am  talking  of  your  body." 

"Bertram,"  she  said,  excitedly,  "that  is  just 
your  error  —  not  yours  alone,  but  the  whole 
world's  error.  This  thinking  always  of 
earthly—" 

"Now,  Letitia,"  I  protested,  "I  have  been  a 
doctor — " 

"Illness,"  she  continued,  "is  a  state  of  mind. 
To  think  one  is  ill,  is  to  be  ill,  of  course,  but  to 
think  one  is  well,  is  to  be  well,  as  I  am — well, 
I  mean,  in  a  way  I  never  dreamed  of! — a  way 
so  sure,  so  beautiful,  that  I  think  sometimes  I 
never  knew  health  before." 

"Letitia,"  I  said,  sharply,  "what  nonsense  is 
this?" 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  she  retorted.  "It  is 
living  truth.  Oh,  how  can  we  be  so  blind! 
The  body,  Bertram — why,  the  body  is  nothing!" 

198 


New  Eden 

"Nothing!"  I  cried. 

"Nothing!"  she  answered,  her  face  glowing. 
"The  body  is  nothing;  the  mind  is  everything! 
It  is  God's  great  precious  gift!  With  my  mind 
I  can  control  my  body — my  life — yes,  my  very 
destiny! — if  I  use  God's  gift  of  Will.  It  is  divine." 

"Letitia,"  I  said,  sternly,  "those  are  fine 
words,  and  well  enough  in  their  time  and  place. 
I  am  not  a  physician  of  souls.  I  mend  worn 
bodies,  when  I  can.  It  is  yours  I  am  thinking 
of — the  frail,  white,  half -starved  flesh  and  blood 
where  your  soul  is  kept." 

"Stop!"  she  cried.  "You  have  no  right  to 
speak  that  way.  You  mean  well,  Bertram,  but 
you  are  wrong.  You  are  mistaken — terribly 
mistaken,"  she  repeated,  earnestly — "terribly 
mistaken.  I  am  quite,  quite  able  to  care  for 
myself.  I  only  ask  to  be  let  alone." 

She  had  grown  hysterical.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes. 

"  See,"  she  said,  in  a  calmer  tone,  wiping  them 
away,  "  I  have  had  perfect  control  till  now. 
This  is  not  weakness  merely;  it  is  worse:  it  is 
sin.  But  I  shall  show  you.  I  shall  show  you 
a  great  truth,  Bertram,  if  you  will  let  me.  Only 
have  patience,  that  is  all." 

199 


Miss    Primrose 

She  smiled  and  paused  in  a  little  common 
near  the  school-house  where  none  might  hear  us. 

"I  learned  it  only  recently,"  she  told  me. 
"  I  cannot  see  how  I  never  thought  of  it  before  : 
this  great  power  mind  has  over  matter — how 
just  by  the  will  which  God  has  given  us  in  His 
goodness,  we  may  rise  above  these  petty,  earthly 
things  which  chain  us  down.  We  can  rise  here, 
Bertram — here  on  earth,  I  mean — and  when  we 
do,  even  though  our  feet  be  on  Grassy  Fordshire 
ground,  we  walk  in  a  higher  sphere.  Ah,  can't 
you  see  then  that  nothing  can  ever  touch  us? 
— nothing  earthly,  however  bitter,  can  ever 
sadden  us  or  spoil  our  lives!  There  will  be  no 
such  thing  as  disappointment;  no  regret,  no 
death — and  earth  will  be  Eden  come  again." 

Her  eyes  were  shining. 

" Letitia,"  I  said,  "it  is  of  another  world  that 
you  are  dreaming." 

"No,  it  is  all  quite  possible  here,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  possible  to  you,  if  you  only  think  so.  It 
is  possible  for  me,  because  I  do." 

"It  seems,"  I  said,  "a  monstrous  selfishness." 

"Selfishness!"  she  said,  aghast. 

"As  long  as  you  have  human  eyes,"  I  said, 
"you  will  see  things  to  make  you  weep,  Letitia." 
200 


New   Eden 

"But  if  I  shut  them — if  I  rise  above  these 
petty—" 

"The  sound  of  crying  will  reach  your  ears,"  I 
said.  "  How  then  shall  you  escape  sadness  and 
regret?  What  right  have  you  to  avoid  the 
burdens  your  fellows  bear  ? — to  be  in  bliss,  while 
they  are  suffering?  It  would  be  monstrous, 
Letitia  Primrose.  You  would  not  be  woman: 
You  would  be  a  fiend." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"At  least,"  I  answered,  "I  will  send  you 
something  from  the  office." 

She  shut  her  lips. 

"I  shall  not  take  it." 

"It  will  make  you  stronger,"  I  insisted. 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  she  answered,  coldly, 
"to  make  me  stronger  than  I  am." 


IX 

A    SERIOUS    MATTER 

|F  ever  woman  had  a  tender  heart, 
that  heart  was  Dove's.  I  used  to 
say,  to  her  confusion,  that  a  South 
Sea  cannibal  might  find  confession- 
al in  her  gentle  ear,  were  his  voice 
but  low  enough ;  that  she  might  draw  back,  shud- 
dering at  his  tales  of  the  bones  he  had  picked, 
but  if  only  his  tears  were  real  ones,  I  could 
imagine  her,  when  he  had  done,  putting  her  hand 
upon  his  swarthy  shoulder  and  saying,  earnestly: 
"I  know  just  how  you  feel!" 
Such  was  the  woman  Letitia  confided  in,  now 
that  her  tongue  was  loosened  and  the  mystery 
solved,  for  her  soul  was  brimming  with  those 
new  visions — dreams  so  roseate  as  she  painted 
them  that  my  wife  listened  with  their  wonder 
mirrored  in  her  round  brown  eyes,  and  dumb 
before  that  eloquence.  Dove  loved  Letitia  as 

202 


A   Serious    Matter 

a  greater  woman  than  herself,  she  said,  wor- 
shipped her  for  her  wider  knowledge  and  more 
fluent  speech,  just  as  she  wondered  at  it  rue- 
fully as  a  girl  on  Sun  Dial  listening  to  Letitia's 
tales  of  dryads  and  their  spells.  In  return  for 
all  this  rapt  attention  and  modest  reverence, 
Letitia  formerly  had  been  grace  itself.  It  was  a 
tender  tyranny  she  had  exercised;  but  now? — 
how  should  my  simple,  earthly  Dove,  mother 
and  housewife,  confide  any  longer  her  favorite 
cares,  her  gentle  fears,  her  innocent  regrets? 
With  what  balm  of  sympathy  and  cheer  would 
the  new  Letitia  heal  those  wounds  ?  Would  not 
their  very  existence  be  denied ;  or  worse,  be  held 
as  evidence  of  sin? — iniquity  in  my  poor  girl's 
soul,  hidden  there  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud,  and 
to  be  chastened  in  no  wise  save  by  taking  in- 
visible white  wings  of  thought,  and  soaring — 
God  knows  where  ? 

The  new  Letitia  was  not  unamiable,  nor  yet 
unkind,  knowingly,  for  she  smiled  consistently 
upon  all  about  her — a  strange,  aloof,  unloving 
smile  though,  at  which  we  sighed.  We  should 
have  liked  her  to  be  heart  and  soul  again  in  our 
old-time  common  pleasures,  even  to  have  joined 
us  now  and  then  in  a  fault  or  two — to  have 

203 


Miss    Primrose 

looked  less  icily,  for  example,  upon  our  occa- 
sional petty  gossip  of  our  neighbors,  or  to  have 
added  one  wrathful  word  to  our  little  rages  at 
the  way  the  world  was  straying  from  the  golden 
mist  we  had  seen  it  turn  in,  in  our  youth.  As 
we  watched  her,  wondering,  laughing  sometimes, 
sometimes  half-angry  at  this  new  and  awful 
guise  she  had  assumed,  it  would  come  to  us,  not 
so  much  how  sadly  earthen  we  must  seem  to 
her,  nor  yet  how  strange  and  daft  and  airy  her 
new  views  seemed  to  us  in  our  duller  sight — but 
how  the  old  Letitia  whom  we  had  loved  was  gone 
forever. 

"Bertram,"  said  my  wife  one  evening  as  we 
sat  together  by  the  lamp,  "what  do  you  think 
Letitia  says?" 

"I  am  prepared  for  anything,  my  dear." 
Dove,  who  was  sewing,  laid  down  her  work  and 
said,  gravely: 

"  She  does  not  believe  in  marriage  any  more." 
I  raised  my  eyebrows.     There  was  really  noth- 
ing to  be  said. 

"At  least,"  my  wife  went  on,  resuming  her 
sewing,  "  she  says  that  the  time  will  come  when 
the  race  will  have" — Dove  paused  thoughtfully 
— "  risen  above  such  things,  I  think  she  said.  I 

204 


A  Serious   Matter  . 

really  don't  remember  the  words  she  used,  but 
I  believe — yes,  there  will  be  marriage — in  a  way 
— that  is" — Dove  knitted  her  brows — "a  union 
of  kindred  souls,  if  I  understand  her." 

"Ah!"  I  replied.  "I  see.  But  what  about 
the  perpetuation — " 

My  wife  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  all  that  will  be  done  away  with,  I  be- 
lieve," she  said,  gravely. 

"  Done  away  with!"  I  cried. 

"At  least,"  Dove  explained,  "it  will  not  be 
necessary." 

My  face,  I  suppose,  may  have  looked  incredu- 
lous. 

"  I  don't  quite  comprehend  what  Letitia  says 
sometimes,"  my  wife  explained,  "but  to-day 
she  was  telling  me — " 

Dove  laughed  quaintly. 

"Oh,  I  forget  what  comes  next,"  she  said, 
"but  Letitia  told  me  all  about  it  this  morning." 

I  returned  to  my  quarterly.  Presently  my 
wife  resumed: 

"  She  has  four  books  about  it." 

"Only  four!"  I  said.  "I  should  think  one 
would  need  a  dozen  at  least  to  explain  such 
mysteries." 

14  205 


Miss    Primrose 

"  She  says  herself  she  is  only  at  the  beginning," 
Dove  replied.  "  She's  now  in  the  first  circle — or 
cycle,  I've  forgotten  which — but  the  more  she 
reads  and  the  more  she  thinks  about  it,  the  more 
wonderful  it  grows.  Oh,  there  was  something 
else — what  was  it  now  she  called  it  ? — something 
about  the — cosmos,  I  think  she  said,  but  I 
didn't  quite  grasp  the  thing  at  all." 

"I'm  surprised,"  I  replied.  "It's  very  sim- 
ple." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  Dove  answered,  quickly, 
and  so  humbly  that  I  laughed,  but  she  looked  up 
at  me  with  such  a  quivering  smile,  I  checked 
myself.  "I  suppose  it  is  simple,"  she  replied. 
"  I  guess  my  mind — is  not  very  strong,  Bertram. 
I — I  find  it  so  hard  to  understand  some — " 

I  saw  the  tears  were  coming. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  such  things, 
my  dear,"  I  said,  cheerfully.  "It's  a  bonny 
mind  you  have,  you  take  my  word  for  it." 

Dove  wiped  her  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said;  "when  I  listen  to  Letitia,  I 
feel  like  a—" 

"There,  there,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "you  have 
things  a  thousand  times  more  vital  and  useful 
and  beautiful  than  this  cosmos  Letitia  talks 
206 


A   Serious    Matter 

about.  It's  only  another  word  for  the  universe, 
my  love,  if  I  remember  rightly — I'm  not  quite 
sure  myself,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  It's  easy  to 
pronounce,  and  it  may  mean  something,  or  it 
may  mean  nothing,  but  we  needn't  trouble  our- 
selves about  it,  little  one.  You  have  work  to 
do.  You  must  remember  Letitia  has  no  such 
ties  to  bind  her  to  the  simple  things,  which  are 
enough  for  most  of  us  to  battle  with.  I  am  tired 
of  theories  myself,  dear  heart.  Work — every- 
day, humble,  loving  service  is  all  that  keeps  life 
normal  and  people  pleasant  to  have  about.  I 
see  so  much  of  this  other  side,  it  is  always  good 
to  come  home  to  you." 

I  went  back  to  my  medical  journal — I  forgot 
to  say  I  had  come  around  to  my  wife's  side  of  our 
reading-table  in  settling  this  perplexing  matter; 
I  went  back  to  my  work,  and  she  to  hers,  and 
we  finished  the  evening  very  quietly,  and  in  as 
good  health  and  unruffled  spirits  as  the  cosmos 
itself  must  enjoy,  I  think,  judging  from  the  easy 
way  it  has  run  on,  year  after  year,  age  after  age, 
since  the  dark  beginning. 


PART   III 
Ro  s  e  m  a  ry 


THE   HOME-KEEPER 

IHE  years  slip  by  so  quietly  in 
Grassy  Ford  that  men  and  women 
born  here  find  themselves  old,  they 
scarce  know  how,  for  are  they  not 
still  within  sound  of  the  brooks 
they  fished  in,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  very 
hill- sides  they  climbed  for  butternuts,  when  they 
were  young?  The  brooks  run  on  so  gayly  as 
before,  and  why  not  they  as  well  ? 

"Butters,"  Shears  used  to  grumble,  "never 
could  learn  that  he  was  old  enough  to  stop  his 
jawing  and  meddling  around  the  town,  till  they 
dug  his  grave  for  him;  then  he  shut  up  fast 
enough." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Caleb  Kane,  another  char- 
acter, "  we'll  sure  enough  have  to  send  for  the 
sexton." 

Colonel  Shears  eyed  Caleb  with  suspicion, 
211 


Miss    Primrose 

"What  for?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  to  get  a  word  in  edgewise,  Sam'l," 
Caleb  replied,  and  the  Colonel  rose,  shifted  his 
cigar,  and  sauntered  homeward. 

"Mostly  comedies,"  said  the  one  we  call 
Johnny  Keats,  when  I  urged  him  to  write  the 
stories  of  his  native  town;  yet,  as  I  told  him, 
there  are  tragedies  a-plenty  too  in  Grassy  Ford- 
shire,  though  the  dagger  in  them  is  a  slower  tort- 
ure than  the  short  swift  stab  men  die  of  in  a 
literary  way.  Our  heroic  deaths  are  done  by 
inches,  as  a  rule,  so  imperceptibly,  so  often  with 
jests  and  smiles  in  lieu  of  fine  soliloquies,  that 
our  own  neighbors  do  not  always  know  how  rare 
a  play  the  curtain  falls  on  sometimes  among  our 
hills. 

If  I  do  not  die  in  harness,  if,  as  I  often  dream  of 
doing,  I  turn  my  practice  over  to  some  younger 
man — perhaps  to  Robin,  who  shows  some  signs 
of  following  in  his  father's  steps — I  shall  write 
the  story  of  my  native  town ;  not  in  the  old  way, 
embellished,  as  Butters  would  have  termed  it, 
with  family  photographs  of  the  leading  citizens 
and  their  houses  and  cow-sheds,  and  their  wood- 
en churches,  and  their  corner  stores  with  the 
clerks  and  pumpkins  in  array  before  them — not 

212 


The   Home-keeper 

in  that  old,  time-honored,  country  manner,  but 
in  the  way  it  comes  to  me  as  I  look  backward  and 
think  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  and  the  clowns 
and  villains  I  have  known.  I  shall  need  some- 
thing to  keep  me  from  "jawing  and  meddling 
around  the  town";  why  not  white  paper  and  a 
good  stub  pen,  while  I  smoke  and  muse  of  my 
former  usefulness.  I  suppose  I  shall  never  write 
the  chronicle ;  Johnny  Keats  could,  if  he  would ; 
and  I  would,  if  I  could — thus  the  matter  rests, 
while  the  town  and  its  tales  and  I  myself  grow 
old  together.  Even  Johnny  Keats,  who  was  a 
boy  when  Letitia  taught  in  the  red  brick  school- 
house,  has  a  thin  spot  in  his  hair. 

Had  Dove  but  lived — it  is  idle,  I  know,  to  say 
what  might  have  been,  had  our  Grassy  Ford- 
shire  been  the  same  sweet  place  it  was,  before 
she  went  like  other  white  birds — "southward," 
she  said,  "but  only  for  a  winter,  Bertram — 
surely  spring  comes  again." 

This  I  do  know:  that  I  should  have  had  far 
less  to  tell  of  Letitia  Primrose,  who  might  have 
gone  on  mooning  of  a  better  world  had  Dove  not 
gone  to  one,  leaving  no  theories  but  a  son  and 
husband  to  Letitia 's  care.  It  was  not  to  the 
oracle  that  she  intrusted  us,  but  to  the  woman — 
213 


Miss    Primrose 

not  to  the  new  Letitia  but  to  the  old,  who  had 
come  back  to  us  in  those  vigils  at  my  wife's 
bedside. 

"This  is  not  sin,  Letitia,"  Dove  said  to  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  replied  Letitia.  "You  must 
not  dream  that  I  could  call  it  so." 

"Still,"  Dove  answered,  "if  I  had  your  mind, 
perhaps — ' 

"Hush,  dear  love,"  Letitia  whispered.  "My 
sweet,  my  sweet — oh,  if  I  had  your  soul!" 

From  such  chastening  moments  Letitia  Prim- 
rose was  the  mother  she  might  have  been.  A 
tenderer,  humbler  heart,  save  only  Dove's,  I 
never  knew,  nor  a  gentler  voice,  nor  a  stronger 
hand,  than  those  she  gave  us,  man  and  boy 
bereft — not  only  in  those  first  blank  days,  but 
through  the  years  that  followed.  So  easily 
that  I  marvelled  did  the  school-mistress  become 
the  home-keeper,  nor  can  I  look  upon  a  spinster 
now,  however  whimsical,  that  I  do  not  think  of 
her  as  the  elder  sister  of  that  wife  and  mother 
in  her  soul. 

A  new  dream  possessed  Letitia;  it  was  to  be 
like  Dove.  She  could  never  be  youthful  save 
in  spirit;  she  could  never  be  lovely  with  that 
subtle  poise  and  grace  which  cannot  be  feigned 

214 


The   Home-keeper 

or  purchased  at  any  price,  neither  with  gold  nor 
patience  nor  purest  prayer  nor  any  precious 
thing  whatever,  but  comes  only  as  a  gift  to  the 
true  young  mother  at  her  cradle-side.  She 
could  not  be  one-half  so  perfect,  she  confessed 
humbly  to  herself,  but  she  could  keep  the  fire 
blazing  on  a  lonely  hearth,  where  a  man  sat  si- 
lent with  his  child. 

My  girl's  housewifeliness  had  seemed  a  simple 
matter  when  Letitia's  mind  was  on  her  school 
and  sky;  it  was  now  a  marvel  as  she  learned 
what  Dove  had  done  —  those  thousand  little 
things,  and  all  so  easily,  so  placidly,  that  at  the 
day's  fag-end  Letitia,  weary  with  unaccustomed 
cares,  wondered  what  secret  system  of  philoso- 
phy Dove's  had  been.  What  were  the  rules 
and  their  exceptions  ?  What  were  the  formulas  ? 
Here  were  sums  to  do,  old  as  the  hills,  but 
strange,  new  answers!  There  must  be  a  gram- 
mar for  all  that  fluency,  that  daily  smoothness 
in  every  clause  and  phrase — a  kind  of  eloquence, 
as  Letitia  saw  it  now,  marvelling  at  it  as  Dove 
had  marvelled  at  her  own.  When  she  had  solved 
it,  as  she  thought,  the  steak  went  wrong,  or  the 
pudding  failed  her,  or  the  laundry  came  home 
torn  or  incomplete,  moths  perhaps  got  into 

215 


Miss    Primrose 

closets,  ants  stormed  the  pantry,  or  a  pipe  got 
stopped ;  and  then,  discomfited,  she  would  have 
Dove's  magic  and  good  -  humored  mastery  to 
seek  again. 

She  had  kept  house  once  herself,  it  is  true, 
but  years  ago,  for  her  simple  father,  and  not  in 
Dove's  larger  way.  The  Primrose  household  as 
she  saw  it  now  had  been  a  meagre  one,  for  here 
in  the  years  of  Dove's  gentle  rule,  a  wondrous 
domestic  ritual  had  been  established,  which  it 
was  now  her  duty  to  perform.  That  she  did  it 
faithfully,  so  that  the  windows  shone  and  the 
curtains  hung  like  snowy  veils  behind  them,  so 
that  the  searching  light  of  day  disclosed  no 
film  upon  the  walnut,  who  could  doubt,  knowing 
that  conscience  and  its  history?  She  kept  our 
linen  neatly  stitched;  she  set  the  table  as  Dove 
had  set  it ;  she  poured  out  tea  for  us  more  prim- 
ly, to  be  sure,  but  cheerfully  as  Dove  had  poured 
it,  smiling  upon  us  from  Dove's  chair. 

Robin  grew  straight  of  limb  and  wholesome  of 
soul  as  Dove  had  dreamed.  Letitia  helped  him 
with  his  lessons,  told  him  the  legends  of  King 
Arthur's  court,  and  read  with  him  those  Tales 
of  a  Grandfather,  which  I  had  loved  as  just  such 
another  romping  boy — though  not  so  handsome 

216 


The   Home-keeper 

and  debonair  as  Dove's  son  was,  for  he  had  her 
eyes  and  her  milder,  her  more  poetic  face,  and 
was  more  patrician  in  his  bearing;  he  is  like  his 
mother  to  this  day.  His  temper,  which  is  not 
maternal,  I  confess — those  sudden  gusts  when, 
as  I  before  him,  he  chafed  in  bonds  and  cried 
out  bitter  things,  rose  hotly  sometimes  at  Leti- 
tia's  discipline,  though  he  loved  her  doubly 
now. 

"You  are  not  my  mother!"  he  would  shout, 
clinching  his  fists.  "You  are  not  my  mother!" 

Then  her  heart  would  fail  her,  for  she  loved 
him  fondly,  even  in  his  rage,  and  her  penalty 
would  be  mild  indeed.  Often  she  blamed  her- 
self for  his  petty  waywardness,  and  feeling  her 
slackening  hand  he  would  take  the  bit  between 
his  teeth,  coltlike;  but  he  was  a  good  lad, 
Robin  was,  and,  like  his  mother,  tender-hearted, 
for  all  his  spirit,  and  as  quick  to  be  sorry  as  to 
be  wrong.  When  they  had  made  it  up,  crying 
in  each  other's  arms,  Letitia  would  say  to  him: 

"I'm  not  your  mother,  but  I  love  you,  and 
I've  got  no  other  little  boy." 

It  was  thus  Letitia  kept  our  home  for  us, 
tranquil  and  spotless  as  of  old;  and  if  at  first  I 
chose  more  often  than  was  kind  to  sit  rather 

217 


Miss    Primrose 

among  my  bottles  and  my  books  and  instru- 
ments, leaving  her  Robin  and  the  evening- 
lamp,  it  was  through  no  fault  or  negligence  of 
hers  I  did  it,  for,  however  bright  my  hearth  might 
glow,  however  tended  by  her  gentle  hands,  its 
flame  was  but  the  ruddy  symbol  to  me  of  a  past 
whose  spirit  never  could  return. 

"Who  is  Miss  Primrose?"  strangers  in  Grassy 
Ford  would  ask. 

"She's  a  sort  of  relative,"  the  reply  would  be, 
"and  the  doctor's  house-keeper." 

For  the  woman  who  keeps  still  sacred  and 
beautiful  another  woman's  home,  in  all  the 
language,  in  all  our  wordiness,  there  is  no  other 
name. 


II 


JOHNNY   KEATS 

HE  one  we  call  Johnny  Keats  is 
well  enough  known  as  Karl  St. 
John.  He  was  a  Grassy  Ford- 
shire  boy  and  Letitia's  pupil,  as 
I  have  said,  till  he  left  us,  only  to 
like  us  better,  as  he  once  told  me,  by  seeing 
the  world  beyond  our  hills.  He  went  gladly,  I 
should  say,  judged  by  the  shining  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  a  homely,  slender,  quiet  lad,  except 
when  roused,  when  he  was  vehement  and  ob- 
stinate enough,  and  somewhat  given,  I  am  told, 
to  rhapsody  and  moonshine.  He  read  much 
rather  than  studied  as  a  school-boy,  and  was 
seen  a  good  deal  on  Sun  Dial  and  along  Trouble- 
some where  he  never  was  known  to  fish,  but 
wandered  aimlessly,  wasting,  it  was  said,  a  deal 
of  precious  time  which  might  have  been  bettered 
in  his  father's  shop.  Letitia  liked  him  for  a  cer- 

219 


Miss    Primrose 

tain  brightness  in  his  face  when  she  talked  of 
books,  or  of  other  things  outside  the  lessons; 
otherwise  he  was  not  what  is  termed  in  Grassy 
Ford  a  remarkable  boy.  We  have  lads  who 
"speak  pieces"  and  "accept,"  as  we  say  it, 
"  lucrative  "  positions  in  our  stores. 

Karl  drifted  off  when  barely  twenty,  and  as 
time  went  by  was  half  forgotten  by  the  town, 
when  suddenly  the  news  came  home  to  us  that 
he  had  written,  and  what  is  sometimes  considered 
more,  had  published,  and  with  his  own  name 
on  the  title-page,  a  novel! — Sleepington  Fair, 
the  thing  was  called.  There  are  those  who  say 
Sleepington  Fair  means  Grassy  Ford,  and  that 
the  river  which  the  hero  loved,  and  where  he 
rescued  a  maid  named  Hilda  from  an  April 
flood,  is  really  our  own  little  winding  Trouble- 
some, widened  and  deepened  to  permit  the  well- 
nigh  tragic  ending  of  the  tale.  You  can  wade 
Troublesome;  Hilda  went  in  neck-deep.  They 
say  also  that  the  man  McBride,  who  talks  so  much, 
is  our  old  friend  Colonel  Shears;  the  fanciful 
McBride  is  tall  in  fact,  and  the  actual  Shears  is 
tall  in  fancy.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  book  was 
excellent,  considering  that  it  was  written  by  a 
Grassy  Fordshire  boy,  and  it  set  at  least  two 

220 


Johnny  Keats 

others  of  our  lads,  and  a  lady,  I  believe,  to  scrib- 
bling— further  deponent  sayeth  not. 

Sleepington  Fair  was  read  by  the  ladies  of 
the  Longfellow  Circle,  our  leading  literary  club. 
Our  Mrs.  Buhl,  acknowledged  by  all  but  envious 
persons  to  be  the  most  cultured  woman  in 
Grassy  Ford,  pronounced  it  safely  "one  of  the 
most  pleasing  and  promising  novels  of  the  past 
decade,"  and,  in  concluding  her  critical  review 
before  the  club,  she  said,  smilingly :  "  From  Mr. 
St.  John — our  Mr.  St.  John,  for  let  me  call  him 
so,  since  surely  he  is  ours  to  claim — from  our 
Mr.  St.  John  we  may  expect  much,  and  I  feel 
that  I  am  only  voicing  the  sentiments  of  the 
Longfellow  Circle  when  I  wish  for  him  every 
blessing  of  happiness  and  health,  that  his  facile 
pen  may  through  the  years  to  come  trace  only 
what  is  pure  and  noble,  and  that  when,  as  they 
will,  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  his  sun  descends 
in  the  glowing  west,  he  may  say  with  the  poet — ' 

What  the  poet  said  I  have  forgotten,  but  the 
words  of  Mrs.  Buhl  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of 
many  of  her  auditors,  who,  at  the  meeting's  close, 
pressed  about  her  with  out  -  stretched  hands, 
assuring  her  that  she  had  quite  outdone  herself 
and  that  never  in  their  lives  had  they  heard 

IS  221 


Miss    Primrose 

anything  more  scholarly,  anything  more  thought- 
fully thought  or  more  touchingly  said.  Would 
she  not  publish  it,  she  was  asked,  pleadingly? 
No  ?  It  was  declared  a  pity.  It  was  a  shame, 
they  said,  that  she  had  never  written  a  book 
herself,  she  who  could  write  so  charmingly  of 
another's. 

"Ladies!  Ladies!"  murmured  Mrs.  Buhl, 
much  affected  by  this  ovation,  but  her  modest 
protest  was  drowned  utterly  in  a  chorus  of — 

"Yes,  indeed!" 

Sleepington  Fair  aroused  much  speculation 
as  to  its  author's  rise  in  the  outer  world,  chiefly 
with  reference  to  the  money  he  must  be  making, 
the  sum  being  variously  estimated  at  from  five 
to  twenty-five  thousand  a  year. 

"Too  low,"  said  Shears.  " Suppose  he  makes 
half  a  dollar  on  every  book,  and  suppose  he  sells 
— well,  say  he  sells  one  hundred  thousand — " 

"One  hundred  thousand!"  cried  Caleb  Kane. 
"Go  wan!" 

"Why,  darn  your  skin,"  said  Colonel  Shears, 
"  why  not  ?  The  Old  Red  Barn  sold  five  hundred 
thousand,  and  only  out  two  years.  Saw  it  my- 
self in  the  paper,  the  other  day." 

"No!" 

222 


Johnny    Keats 

"I    say    yes!    Five    hundred    thousand,  by 
cracky!" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Caleb,  "that  thing  was 
written  by  a  different  cuss." 

When  it  was  learned  one  morning  that  Karl 
had  returned  under  cover  of  night  for  a  visit 
to  Grassy  Ford,  those  who  had  known  the  boy 
looked  curiously  to  see  what  manner  of  man  he 
had  become.  And,  lo!  he  was  scarcely  a  man 
at  all,  but  a  beardless  youth,  no  laurel  upon  his 
head,  no  tragic  shadow  on  his  brow! — a  shy 
figure  flitting  down  the  long  main  street,  darting 
into  stores  and  out  again,  and  nodding  quickly, 
and  hurrying  home  again  as  fast  as  his  legs  would 
take  him  —  to  dodge  a  caller  even  there  and 
wander,  thankful  for  escape,  on  the  banks  of 
Troublesome. 

"Well,  you  'ain't  changed  much,"  said  Colonel 
Shears,  when  he  met  the  author. 

"No,"  said  Karl. 

"  Look  just  as  peaked  as  ever,"  was  the  cheer- 
ful greeting  of  Caleb  Kane. 

"Yes,"  said  Karl. 

"Don't  seem  a  day  older,"   said  Grandma 
Smith. 

"No?"  said  Karl. 

223 


Miss    Primrose 

"Why,  Karl,"  said  Shears,  "I  thought  you'd 
change;  thought  you'd  look  different,  somehow! 
Yes,  sir,  I  thought  you'd  look  different — but,  I 
swan,'  you  don't!" 

"No,"  said  Karl,  and  there  was  such  honest 
chagrin  in  the  faces  of  those  old-time  friends,  he 
was  discomfited.  What  had  they  expected,  he 
asked  at  home? 

"Why,"  said  his  mother,  "don't  you  know? 
Can't  you  guess,  my  dear?  They  looked  at 
least  for  a  Prince  -  Albert  and  a  stove-pipe 
hat." 

" Silk  hat!     Prince-Albert!" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  his  father.  "The  outward 
and  visible  sign  of  the  soul  within." 

Karl's  clothes,  it  is  true,  were  scarcely  the 
garb  to  be  hoped  for  in  so  marked  a  man.  The 
dandies  of  Grassy  Ford  noted  complacently  that 
his  plain,  gray,  wrinkled  suit  did  not  compare 
for  style  and  newness  with  their  own,  while  they 
wore  at  their  throats  the  latest  cravats  of  emer- 
ald and  purple  loveliness.  Karl's  tie  was  black, 
and  a  plain  and  pinless  bow  which  drooped  de- 
jectedly. His  hat  was  a  mere  soft,  weather- 
beaten,  shapeless  thing,  and  he  walked  on  Sunday 
with  gloveless  hands.  Miss  Johnson,  a  reigning 

224 


Johnny  Keats 

belle,  tells  how  he  once  escorted  her  from  the 
post-office  to  her  father's  gate,  talking  of  Words- 
worth all  the  way,  and  all  unconscious  of  the 
Sun  Dial  burrs  still  clinging  to  his  coat ! 

Letitia,  for  one,  declared  that  she  was  not 
disappointed  in  the  author  of  Sleepington  Fair. 
In  honor  of  her  old  pupil  she  gave  a  dinner,  and 
spent  such  thought  upon  its  menu  and  took 
such  pains  with  its  service,  lest  it  should  offend 
a  New-Yorker's  epicurean  eye,  it  is  remembered 
still,  and  not  merely  because  it  was  the  only 
literary  dinner  Grassy  Ford  has  known.  There 
was  some  agitation  among  the  invited  guests  as 
to  the  formality  involved  in  a  dinner  to  a  lion — 
even  though  that  lion  might  be  seen  commonly 
with  burrs  in  his  tail.  The  pride  and  honor  of 
Grassy  Ford  was  at  stake,  and  the  matter  was 
the  more  important  as  the  worthy  fathers  of 
the  town  seldom  owned  dress  -  suits  in  those 
days.  For  a  time,  I  believe,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
Mr.  Jewell,  the  banker,  was  the  sole  possessor, 
and  became  thereby,  no  less  than  by  virtue  of 
the  manners  which  accompany  the  occasional 
wearing  of  so  suave  a  garment  in  so  small  a 
town — our  first  real  gentleman.  In  his  case, 
however,  the  ownership  was  the  less  surprising 
225 


Miss    Primrose 

in  that  he  was  known  to  enjoy  New  York  con- 
nections, on  his  mother's  side. 

Now,  to  those  who  consulted  Letitia  as  to  the 
precise  demands  of  the  approaching  feast,  she 
explained,  gracefully,  that  they  would  be  wel- 
come in  any  dress — adding,  however,  for  the 
gentlemen's  benefit,  and  hopefully  no  doubt, 
for  she  had  the  occasion  in  heart  and  hand,  that 
the  conventional  garb  after  six  o'clock  was  a 
coat  with  tails.  As  a  result  of  the  conference 
two  guests-to-be  might  have  been  seen  through 
a  tailor's  window,  standing  coatless  and  erect 
upon  a  soap-box,  much  straighter  than  it  was 
their  wont  to  stand,  much  fuller  of  chest,  robin- 
like,  aad  with  hips  thrown  neatly  back  —  to 
match,  as  the  Colonel  said.  Two  other  gentle- 
men of  the  dinner-party  told  their  wives  bluntly 
that  they  would  go  "as  usual,"  or  they  would 
be  —  not  go  at  all,  before  which  edicts  their 
dames  salaamed. 

Letitia  counted  on  five  dress-suits,  at  least, 
including  the  author's  and  my  own.  Mine  I 
must  wear,  she  said,  or  she  would  be  shamed 
forever;  so  I  put  it  on  when  the  night  arrived, 
wormed  my  way  cautiously  into  its  outgrown 
folds,  only  to  find  then,  to  my  pain,  that  an  up- 
226 


Johnny  Keats 

right  posture  alone  could  preserve  its  dignity 
and  mine. 

The  hour  arrived,  and  with  it  the  Buxtons,  old 
friends  and  neighbors;  Dr.  Jamieson,  homoeo- 
pathic but  otherwise  beyond  reproach,  and  Miss 
Jamieson,  his  daughter,  who  could  read  Brown- 
ing before  breakfast,  much,  I  suppose,  as  some 
robust  men  on  empty  stomachs  smoke  strong 
cigars;  the  Gallowses,  not  wanted  overmuch, 
but  asked  to  keep  the  white  wings  of  peace 
hovering  in  our  hills ;  the  Jewells,  and  some  one 
I've  forgotten,  and  then  the  Buhls  —  Mr.  Buhl 
smiling,  but  unobtrusive  to  the  ear,  Mrs.  Buhl 
radiant  and  gracious,  and  pervading  the  as- 
semblage with  a  dowagerial  rustling  of  lavender 
silk.  To  my  mind  the  quieter  woman  in  the 
plain  black  gown  adorned  only  by  an  old-lace 
collar  and  antique  pin,  her  hair  the  whiter  for 
her  cheeks  now  rosy  with  agitation,  her  eyes 
shining  with  the  joy  of  the  first  great  function 
she  had  ever  given,  was  the  loveliest  figure 
among  them  all. 

Last  came  two  plain,  unassuming  folk,  though 
proud  enough  of  that  only  son  of  theirs,  and 
then — 

"Oh!"  cries  Mrs.  Buhl,  so  suddenly,  so  ec- 
227 


Miss    Primrose 

statically  that  the  hum  ceases  and  every  head 
is  turned.  "Mister  St.  John!" 

It  is  indeed  the  author  of  Sleepington  Fair. 
And  behold  the  lion!  —  a  slight  and  faltering 
figure,  pausing  upon  the  threshold,  burrless  in- 
deed, but  oh! — in  that  old  sack  suit  of  gray! 

Letitia  bore  the  shock  much  better  than  might 
be  expected.  She  changed  color,  it  is  true,  but 
the  flush  came  back  at  once,  and,  standing  loyal- 
ly at  his  side,  she  led  the  lion  into  the  room. 

It  was  a  trying  moment.  He  was  an  Author 
— he  had  written  a  Book — but  we  were  thirteen 
to  his  one,  and  four  dress-suits  besides !  Thirteen 
to  one,  if  you  omit  his  parents,  and  four  dress- 
shirts,  remember,  bulging  and  crackling  before 
his  dazzled  eyes!  New  York  wavered  and  fell 
back,  and  the  first  skirmish  was  Grassy  Ford's. 

At  the  same  instant  it  was  whispered  anxious- 
ly in  my  ear  that  the  ices  had  not  arrived,  but  I 
counselled  patience,  and  dinner  was  proclaimed 
without  delay.  The  lion  and  Letitia  led  the 
procession  to  the  feast,  and  I  have  good  reason 
for  the  statement  that  he  was  a  happier  lion 
when  we  were  seated  and  he  had  put  his  legs 
away.  Still,  even  then  he  could  scarcely  be 
called  at  ease.  Once  only  did  he  talk  as  if  he 

228 


Johnny   Keats 

loved  his  theme,  and  then  it  was  solely  with 
Letitia,  who  had  mentioned  Troublesome,  out 
of  the  goodness  of  her  heart,  as  I  believe.  His 
face  lighted  at  the  name,  and  he  talked  so  glad- 
ly that  all  other  converse  ceased.  What  was 
the  lion  roaring  of  so  gently  there  ?  Startled  to 
hear  no  other  voices,  he  stopped  abruptly,  and, 
seeing  our  curious  faces  all  about  him,  dropped 
his  eyes,  abashed,  and  kept  them  on  his  plate. 
Then  Mrs.  Buhl,  famous  in  such  emergencies, 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"Oh,  Mr.  St.  John,"  she  said,  while  we  all  sat 
listening,  "  I've  wanted  to  ask  you:  how  did  you 
come  to  write  Sleepington  Fair?" 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  reddening,  "I — I  wanted 
to — that  was  all." 

"I  see,"  she  replied. 

"Do  you  like  'Sordello'?"  asked  Miss  Jamie- 
son,  in  the  awkward  silence  that  ensued. 

"Well,  really — I  cannot  say;  I  have  never 
read  it,"  was  his  confession. 

"Not  read  'Sordello'!" 

"No." 

"  Let's  see,  that's  Poe,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  a  young 
dress-shirt,  swelling  visibly,  emboldened  to  the 
guess  by  the  lion's  discomfiture, 

229 


Miss    Primrose 

"Robert  Browning,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a 
look  of  scorn,  and  the  dress-shirt  sank  again. 

"New  York  is  a  great  place,  isn't  it?"  volun- 
teered Jimmy  Gallows. 

"Yes,"  said  the  lion. 

"Been  up  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  I  suppose?" 
Jimmy  went  on. 
.   "No,"  said  the  lion. 

"What!"  cried  the  chorus.  "Never  been  up 
the—" 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Mrs.  Jewell,  who 
was  deaf.  Mr.  Buxton  solemnly  inclined  his  lips 
to  her  anxious  ear  and  shouted : 

" He  has  never  been  up  the  Statue  of  Liberty." 

"Oh!"  said  the  lady. 

The  silence  was  profound. 

"What,  never?"  piped  Jimmy  Gallows. 

"Never,"  said  the  lion,  shaking  his  mane  a 
little  ominously.  "  I  have  never  been  a  tourist." 

Letitia  mentioned  Sun  Dial,  and  would  have 
saved  the  day,  I  think,  had  not  Mrs.  Buhl  leaned 
forward  with  the  sweetest  of  alluring  smiles. 

"Oh,  Mr.  St.  John,"  she  said,  "I've  been  go- 
ing to  ask  you — in  fact,  for  a  long,  long  time  I 
have  wanted  to  know,  and  I  wonder  now  if  you 
won't  tell  me:  how  do  authors" — she  paused  sig- 

230 


Johnny   Keats 

nificantly — "  how  do  authors  get  their  books  ac- 
cepted?" 

A  dress-shirt  crackled,  but  was  frowned  upon. 

"  What  did  he  say?"  asked  the  lady  who  was 
deaf. 

"He  hasn't  said  anything  yet,"  roared  Mr. 
Buxton. 

"Oh!" 

"  Do  tell  us,"  urged  Mrs.  Buhl.  "  Do,  Mr.  St. 
John.  I  almost  called  you  Karl." 

"Was  it  a  conundrum?"  inquired  the  deaf 
lady,  perceiving  that  it  had  been  a  poser. 

"  No.  Question:  how  do  authors  get  their  books 
accepted  ?" 

"Yes — how  do  they?"  urged  Mrs.  Buhl. 

"Why,"  said  the  lion  at  last,  for  all  the  table 
hung  upon  his  answer,  "by  writing  them  well 
enough — I  suppose." 

It  was  a  weak  answer.  There  was  no  satis- 
faction in  it,  no  meat,  no  pith  at  all,  nothing  to 
carry  home  with  you.  Mrs.  Buhl  said,  "Oh!" 

"To  what,  then,"  piped  Jimmy  Gallows,  "do 
you  attribute  your  success?" 

He  was  a  goaded  lion,  one  could  see  quite 
plainly;  the  strain  was  telling  on  his  self-con- 
trol. 

231 


Miss    Primrose 

"  It  is  not  worth  mentioning,  Mr.  Gallows,"  he 
replied,  stiffly. 

"Mr.  St.  John,"  Letitia  interposed,  in  a  quiet 
voice,  "  was  just  now  telling  me  that  there  is  no 
music  in  all  New  York  to  compare  with  Trouble- 
some's.  Shall  we  go  into  the  other  room?" 

That  night,  when  the  last  guest  had  departed, 
I  asked  Letitia,  "  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
author?" 

"/  am  not  disappointed,"  she  replied. 

"Not  much  of  a  talker,  though?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"He  does  not  pretend  to  be  a  talker,"  she 
replied,  warmly.  "He  is  a  writer.  No,"  she 
repeated,  "  I  am  not  disappointed  in  my  Johnny 
Keats." 

Next  day,  I  think  it  was,  in  the  afternoon,  he 
asked  Letitia  to  walk  with  him  to  the  banks  of 
Troublesome,  to  a  spot  which  she  had  praised  the 
night  before.  His  heart  was  full,  and  as  they 
lingered  together  by  those  singing  waters  he 
told  her  of  his  struggles  in  the  city  whose  statue 
he  had  never  climbed.  He  told  her  of  his 
black  days  there,  of  his  failure  and  despondency, 
of  his  plans  to  leave  it  and  desert  his  dreams, 
but  how  that  mighty,  roaring,  dragon  "creature 

232 


had  held  him  pinioned  in  its  claws  till  he  had 
won. 

"And  then,"  he  told  her,  "when  I  saw  my 
book,  I  looked  again,  and  it  was  not  a  dragon 
which  had  held  me — it  was  an  angel!" 

Seeing  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  he 
added,  earnestly: 

"  Miss  Primrose,  I  wanted  you  to  know.  You 
had  a  part  in  that  little  triumph." 

"I?" 

"  You.  Don't  you  remember?  Don't  you  re- 
member those  books  you  left  for  us  ? — in  our  old 
school-room? — on  the  shelf?" 


Ill 

THE   FORTUNE-TELLER 

AUTUMN  comes  early  in  Grassy 
Fordshire.  In  late  September  the 
nights  are  chill  and  a  white  mist 
hovers  ghostly  in  the  moonlight 
'among  our  hills.  The  sun  dispels 
it  and  warms  our  noons  to  a  summer  fervor, 
but  there  is  no  permanence  any  longer  in  heat 
or  cold,  or  leaf  or  flower — all  is  change  and 
passing  and  premonition,  so  that  the  singing 
poet  in  you  must  turn  philosopher  and  hush 
his  voice,  seeing  about  him  the  last  sad  rites 
of  those  little  lives  once  blithe  and  green  as 
his  own  was  in  the  spring. 

Ere  October  comes  there  are  crimson  stains 
upon  the  woodlands.  "God's  plums,  father!" 
Robin  cried,  standing  as  a  little  boy  on  Sun 
Dial  and  pointing  to  the  distant  hills.  A  spell 
is  over  them,  a  purple  and  enchanted  sleep, 
234 


The  Fortune-teller 

though  all  about  them  the  winds  are  wakeful, 
and  the  sumac  fire  which  blazed  up  crimson  in 
the  sun  but  a  moment  gone,  burns  low  in  the 
shadow  of  white  clouds  scudding  before  the  gale. 
Here  beneath  them  the  bloom  of  the  golden-rod 
is  upon  the  land ;  fieldsful  and  lanesful,  it  bars 
your  way,  or  brushes  your  shoulders  as  you 
pass.  Only  the  asters,  white  and  purple  and 
all  hues  between,  vie  here  and  there  with  the 
mightier  host,  but  its  yellow  plumes  nod  triumph 
on  every  crest,  banks  and  hedgerows  glow  with 
its  soldiery,  it  beards  the  forest,  and  even  where 
the  plough  has  passed  posts  its  tall  sentries  at 
the  furrow's  brim. 

In  the  lower  meadows  there  is  still  a  coverlet 
of  summer  green,  but  half  hidden  in  the  taller, 
rusting  grasses,  whose  feathery  tops  ripple  in 
the  faintest  wind,  till  suddenly  it  rises  and  whips 
them  into  waves,  now  ruddy,  now  flashing  silver, 
while  a  foam  of  daisies  beats  against  the  gray 
stone  hedges  like  waters  tumbling  on  a  quay. 

There  is  cheerful  fiddling  in  these  dying  grasses, 
and  crickets  scuttle  from  beneath  your  feet ;  there 
is  other  music  too — a  shrill  snoring  as  of  elder 
fairies  oversleeping;  startled  insects  leap  upon 
you,  flocks  of  sparrows  flee  from  interrupted 
235 


Miss    Primrose 

feasts,  squirrels  berate  you,  crows  spread  horrid 
tales  of  murder  stalking  in  the  fields. 

Then  leave  the  uplands — tripping  on  its  hidden 
creepers;  part  the  briers  of  the  farthest  hedge- 
row, and  descend,  Down  in  the  valley  there  is  a 
smell  of  apples  in  the  air,  pumpkins  glow  among 
the  wigwams  of  the  Indian-corn,  and  deeper  still 
runs  Troublesome  among  the  willows,  shining 
silver  in  the  waning  sun.  There  in  the  sopping 
lowlands  they  are  harvesting  the  last  marsh  hay. 
A  road  leads  townward,  the  vines  scarlet  on  its 
tumbling  walls ;  the  air  grows  cooler — 

"Oh,  it  is  beautiful!"  says  Letitia,  sadly— 
"but  it  is  fall." 

I  observe  in  her  always  at  this  season  an  un- 
usual quietness.  She  is  in  the  garden  as  early 
as  in  the  summer-time,  and  while  it  is  still  drip- 
ping with  heavy  dew,  for  she  clings  tenderly  to 
its  last  flowers — to  her  nasturtiums,  to  the  morn- 
ing-glories on  the  trellis,  and  the  geraniums  and 
dahlias  and  phlox  and  verbenas  along  the  path ; 
but  she  gives  her  heart  to  her  petunias,  and 
because,  she  says,  they  are  a  homely,  old-fash- 
ioned flower,  whom  no  one  loves  any  more. 
As  she  caresses  them,  brushing  the  drops  from 
their  plain,  sweet  faces,  she  seems,  like  them,  to 

236 


The  Fortune-teller 

belong  to  some  bygone,  simpler  time.  Some 
think  her  an  odd,  quaint  figure  in  her  sober 
gown,  but  they  never  knew  the  girl  Letitia,  or 
they  would  see  her  still,  even  in  this  elder  woman 
with  the  snow-white  hair. 

Every  fall  gypsies  camp  in  the  fields  near 
Troublesome  on  their  way  southward.  It  is 
the  same  band,  Letitia  tells  me,  that  has  stopped 
there  year  after  year,  and  Letitia  knows:  she 
used  to  visit  them  when  she  was  younger  and 
still  had  a  fortune  to  be  told.  It  was  a  weakness 
we  had  not  suspected.  She  had  never  acknowl- 
edged a  belief  in  omens  or  Horoscopes,  or  proph- 
ecies by  palms  or  dreams,  though  she  used  to 
say  fairies  were  far  more  likely  than  people 
thought.  She  had  seen  glades,  she  told  us, 
lawn  or  meadow  among  encircling  trees,  where, 
long  after  sundown,  the  daylight  lingered  in  a 
fairy  gloaming ;  and  there*,  she  said,  when  the 
fire-flies  danced,  she  had  caught  such  glimpses 
of  that  elf -land  dear  to  childhood,  she  had  come 
to  believe  in  it  again.  There  was  such  a  spot 
among  our  maples,  and  from  the  steps  where 
we  used  to  sit,  we  would  watch  the  afterglow 
pale  there  to  the  starlit  dusk,  or  that  golden 
glory  of  the  rising  moon  break  upon  the  shadowy 
16  237 


Miss    Primrose 

world,  crowning  the  tree-tops  and  quenching 
the  eastern  stars.  Then,  sometimes,  Dove  and 
Letitia  would  talk  of  oracles  and  divination  and 
other  strange  inexplicable  things  which  they 
had  heard  of,  or  had  known  themselves;  but 
Letitia  never  spoke  of  the  gypsy  band  till  three 
giggling  village  maids,  half-fearful  and  half- 
ashamed  of  their  stealthy  quest,  found  their 
school-mistress  among  the  vans!  She  flushed, 
I  suppose,  and  made  the  best  of  a  curious  matter, 
for  she  said,  simply,  when  we  charged  her  with 
the  story  that  had  spread  abroad : 

"  They  are  English'  gypsies,  and  wanderers  like 
the  Primroses  from  their  ancient  home.  That 
is  why  they  fascinate  me,  I  suppose." 

How  often  she  consulted  them,  or  when  she 
began  or  ceased  to  do  so,  I  do  not  know,  but 
when  I  showed  her  the  vans  by  the  willows  and 
the  smoke  rising  from  the  fire,  last  fall,  she 
smiled  and  said  it  was  like  old  times  to  her— 
but  she  added,  quaintly,  that  palms  did  not  itch 
when  the  veins  showed  blue. 

"  Nonsense,"  I  said,  "we  are  both  of  us  young, 
Letitia.  Let  us  find  the  crone  and  hear  her 
croak.  I  am  not  afraid  of  a  little  sorcery." 

Paying  no  heed  to  her  protestations  I  turned 
238 


The   Fortune-teller 

Pegasus — I  have  always  a  Pegasus,  whatever 
my  horse's  other  name — through  the  meadow- 
gate.  A  ragged,  brown-faced  boy  ran  out  to 
us  and  held  the  bridle  while  I  alighted,  and  then 
I  turned  and  offered  Letitia  a  helping  hand. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I'll  wait  here." 

"Come,"  I  said,  "have  you  no  faith,  Letitia?" 

"Not  any  more,"  she  replied.  "This  is  fool- 
ishness, Bertram.  Will  you  never  grow  up?" 

"  It's  only  my  second-childhood,"  I  explained. 
"Come,  we'll  see  the  vans." 

"Some  one  will  see  us,"  she  protested. 

"There  is  not  a  soul  on  the  road,"  I  said. 

Shamefacedly  she  took  my  hand,  glancing 
uneasily  at  the  highway  we  had  left  behind  us, 
and  her  face  flushed  as  we  approached  the  fire. 
An  ugly  old  woman  with  a  dirty  kerchief  about 
her  head,  was  stirring  broth  for  the  evening  meal. 

"Tripod  and  kettle,"  I  said.  "Do  you  re- 
member this  ancient  dame?" 

"Yes,"  said  Letitia,  "it  is—" 

"Sibyl,"  I  said.     "Her  name  is  Sibyl." 

Letitia  smiled. 

"Do  you  remember  me?"  she  asked,  offering 
her  hand.  The  old  witch  peered  cunningly  into 

239 


Miss    Primrose 

her  face,  grinning  and  nodding  as  if  in  answer. 
Two  or  three  scraggy,  evil-eyed  vagabonds  were 
currying  horses  and  idling  about  the  camp, 
watching  us,  but  at  a  glance  from  the  fortune- 
teller, they  slouched  streamward.  The  crone's 
entreaties  and  my  own  were  of  no  avail.  Letitia 
put  her  hands  behind  her — but  we  saw  the  vans 
and  patted  the  horses  and  crossed  the  woman's 
palm  so  that  she  followed  us,  beaming  and 
babbling,  to  the  carriage-side.  There  we  were 
scarcely  seated  when,  stepping  forward  —  so 
suddenly  that  I  glanced,  startled,  towards  the 
camp — the  gypsy  laid  a  brown  hand,  strong  as  a 
man's,  upon  the  reins;  and  turning  then  upon 
Letitia  with  a  look  so  grim  and  mysterious  that 
she  grew  quite  pale  beneath  those  tragic  eyes, 
muttered  a  jargon  of  which  we  made  out  nothing 
but  the  words : 

"You  are  going  on  a  long  journey,"  at  which 
the  woman  stopped,  and  taking  a  backward 
step,  stood  there  silently  and  without  a  smile, 
gazing  upon  us  till  we  were  gone. 

Letitia  laughed  uneasily  as  we  drove  away. 

"Did  she  really  remember  you?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so — which  makes  it  the 
more  surprising." 

240 


The   Fortune-teller 

"Surprising?" 

"Yes;  that  she  should  have  said  again  what 
she  always  told  me." 

"And  what  was  that?" 

"That  I  was  going  on  a  long  journey." 

"  Did  she  always  tell  you  that  ?" 

"Always,  from  the  very  first." 

"Perhaps  she  tells  every  one  so,"  I  suggested. 

"  No,  for  I  used  to  ask,  and  very  particularly, 
as  to  that." 

Why,  I  wondered,  had  she  been  so  curious 
about  long  journeys  ?  I  had  never  known  travel 
to  absorb  her  thoughts.  Why  had  she  inquired, 
and  always  so  very  particularly,  as  she  confessed, 
about  that  single  item  of  gypsy  prophecy,  and 
the  very  one  which  would  seem  least  likely  to 
be  verified  ?  Never  in  my  knowledge  of  Letitia's 
lifetime  had  there  been  any  other  promise  than 
that  of  the  fortune-teller  that  she  would  ever 
wander  from  Grassy  Ford.  I  might  have  asked 
her,  but  she  seemed  silent  and«  depressed  as  we 
drove  homeward,  which  was  due,  I  fancied,  to 
the  gypsy's  rude  alarm.  For  some  days  after 
she  continued  to  remark  how  strangely  that 
repetition  of  the  old  augury  had  sounded  in  her 
ears,  and  smiling  at  it,  she  confessed  how  in 
241 


Miss    Primrose 

former  years  she  had  laid  more  stress  upon  it, 
and  had  even  planned  what  her  gowns  would  be. 

"Did  you  guess  where  you  were  going?"  I 
ventured  to  inquire. 

"Well,  I  rather  hoped— " 

"Yes?"  I  said. 

"You  know  my  fondness  for  history,"  she 
continued.  "I  rather  hoped  I  should  see  some 
day  what  I  had  read  about  so  long — castles  and 
things — and  then,  too,  there  were  the  novels  I 
was  fond  of,  like  Lorna  Doone.  I  always  wanted 
to  see  the  moors  and  the  Doone  Valley,  and  the 
water-slide  that  little  John  Ridd  had  found  so 
slippery,  when  he  first  saw  Lorna." 

"You  wanted  to  see  England  then,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  England,"  she  replied.  "England,  you 
know,  was  my  father's  country." 

"The  Doone  Valley,"  I  remarked,  "would  be 
Devon,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  it  was  Devon  where 
father  was  a  boy." 

"And  our  old  friend  Robin  Saxeholm  came 
from  Devon,  you  know,"  I  said. 

"So  he  did,"  she  answered.  Then  we  talked 
of  Robin  and  his  visit  to  Grassy  Fordshire  years 
ago,  and  what  Letitia  had  forgotten  of  it  I  re- 

242 


The    Fortune-teller 

called  to  her,  and  what  I  could  not  remember, 
she  supplied,  so  that  it  all  came  back  to  us  like  a 
story  or  a  summer  dream. 

When  she  had  gone  up-stairs  I  sat  for  a  long 
time  smoking  by  the  dying  fire,  and  musing  of 
some  old-time  matters  which  now  came  back  to 
me  in  a  clearer  light.  From  thinking  of  my  own 
youth,  little  by  little,  I  came  to  Robin's — I  mean 
the  younger,  who  was  now  so  soon  to  be  a  man. 
Tall  and  fair  like  the  youth  he  was  named  for, 
though  not  red-haired,  he  had  all  but  completed 
that  little  learning  which  is  a  "  dangerous  thing  ": 
he  was  a  high-school  senior  now,  and  over- 
whelmed sometimes  with  the  wonder  of  it,  but  a 
manly  fellow  for  all  that,  one  whom  my  eyes 
dwelt  fondly  on  more  often  than  he  knew.  In 
the  springtime  he  would  have  his  parchment; 
college  would  follow  in  the  fall — college!  What 
could  I  do  to  give  my  son  a  broader  vision  of  the 
universe,  lest  with  only  Grassy  Ford  behind  him, 
he  should  think  the  outside  world  lay  mostly 
within  his  college  walls  ? 

"You  are  going  on  a  long  journey." 
The  gypsy's  words  came  back  unbidden  as  I 
rose  by  the  embers  of  the  fire.     "A  long  jour- 
ney," I  repeated;  "and  why  not?" 

243 


IV 

AN    UNEXPECTED    LETTER 

CURING  the  winter  a  great  piece  of 
news  stirred  Grassy  Ford,  and  in 
spite  of  the  snow-drifts  on  our 
[walks  and  porches  furnished  an 
i  excuse  for  a  dozen  calls  that  other- 
wise would  never  have  been  made  so  soon.  Old 
Mrs.  Luton  was  discovered  in  a  state  of  apoplexy 
on  our  steps,  but  on  being  brought  in  and  di- 
vested of  her  husband's  coon-skin  cap,  a  plush 
collar,  a  scarf,  a  shawl,  a  knitted  jacket,  and  a 
newspaper  folded  across  her  chest,  recovered  her 
breath  and  told  her  story.  Mrs.  Neal,  so  Mrs. 
Luton  said,  had  been  heard  to  say,  according  to 
Mrs.  Withers,  who  had  it  from  Mrs.  Lowell,  who 
lived  next  door  to  Mrs.  Bell — who,  as  the  world 
knows,  called  more  often  than  anybody  else  at 
the  Neal  farm-house,  feeling  a  pity  for  the  lonely 
woman  there,  as  who  did  not? — Mrs.  Neal  had 

244 


An    Unexpected  Letter 

been  heard  to  say,  what  Mrs.  Luton  would  not 
have  repeated  for  the  world  to  any  one  but  her 
dear  Miss  Primrose,  who  could  be  trusted  im- 
plicitly, as  she  knew,  and  she  had  said  it  in  the 
most  casual  way — Mrs.  Neal,  that  is — but  se- 
cretly very  well  pleased,  though,  Heaven  knows, 
she,  Mrs.  Luton — 

"  Won't  you  have  some  coffee  ?"  asked  Letitia, 
for  the  breakfast  was  not  yet  cold. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  I  will,  for  I'm  as  cold  as 
can  be,"  exclaimed  her  visitor,  laughing  hys- 
terically, and  she  was  profuse  in  her  praise  of 
Letitia's  beverage,  and  inquired  the  brand.  Her 
manner  of  sipping  it  as  she  sat  in  an  easy-chair 
before  the  fire  did  away  with  all  necessity  for  a 
spoon,  but  was  a  little  trying  to  a  delicate  sense 
of  hearing  like  Letitia's,  and  was  responsible  be- 
side for  what  was  wellnigh  a  disastrous  deluge 
when  in  the  midst  of  a  copious  ingurgitation 
she  suddenly  remembered  what  she  had  come 
to  tell: 

"Ffff — Peggy  Neal's  a-living  in  New  York!" 
she  splashed,  her  eyes  popping.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  relate  the  story  as  Mrs.  Luton  told 
it,  for  its  ramifications  and  parentheses  involved 
the  history  of  Grassy  Ford  and  the  manifold 

245 


Miss    Primrose 

relationships  of  its  inhabitants,  past  and  present, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  time  to  come,  for  in  specu- 
lations Mrs.  Luton  was  profound. 

Mrs.  Neal,  it  seems,  had  broken  her  long  silence 
and  had  been  heard  to  allude  to  "my  daughter 
Peggy  in  New  York."  Some  years  had  passed 
since  the  farm-gate  clicked  behind  that  forlorn 
and  outcast  girl,  and  in  all  that  time  the  mother 
had  never  spoken  the  daughter's  name,  nor  had 
any  one  dared  more  than  once  to  question  her. 
Letitia  had  tried  once,  but  once  only,  to  inter- 
cede for  the  pupil  she  had  loved,  the  manner  of 
whose  departure  was  well  enough  understood  in 
the  town  and  country-side,  though  where  she  had 
gone  remained  a  mystery. 

On  leaving  the  farm  that  September  evening, 
Peggy,  with  a  desperate  and  tear-stained  face, 
had  been  met  by  a  neighbor  girl,  who  as  a  con- 
fidant in  happier  hours,  was  intrusted  with 
the  story.  It  was  not  a  long  one.  The  mother 
had  pointed  to  the  gate. 

"Look  there!"  she  cried.  "He  went  that 
way.  I  guess  you'll  find  him,  if  you  try,  you — 

Then  her  mother  struck  her,  Peggy  said.  She 
did  not  know  it  was  the  name  which  felled  her. 

Now  after  silence  which  had  seemed  like  death 
246 


An    Unexpected  Letter 

to  the  lonely  woman  in  the  hills,  Peggy  had 
written  home  to  her,  to  beg  forgiveness,  to  say 
that  in  a  life  of  ease  and  luxury  in  a  great  city, 
she  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  farm,  which 
seemed  a  dream  to  her;  she  could  never  return 
to  it,  she  said,  but  she  wondered  if  her  father 
was  living,  and  if  her  mother  had  still  some 
heart  for  her  wayward  daughter,  and  would 
write  sometimes.  She  said  nothing  of  a  child. 
That  she  was  still  unmarried  seemed  evident 
from  the  signature — "  Your  loving,  loving  Peggy 
Neal."  That  some  good -fortune  had  befallen 
her  in  spite  of  that  sad  beginning  in  her  native 
fields,  was  quite  as  clear,  for  the  paper  on  which 
she  had  scrawled  her  message  was  of  finest  text- 
ure and  delicately  perfumed ;  and,  what  was  more, 
between  its  pages  the  mother  had  found  a  sum 
of  money,  how  much  or  little  no  one  knew. 

It  was  observed  that  the  mother's  face  had 
relaxed  a  little.  That  she  had  answered  her 
daughter's  message  was  asserted  positively  by 
Mrs.  Bell,  though  what  that  answer  was,  and 
whether  forgiveness  or  not,  she  did  not  know. 
It  was  assumed,  however,  to  have  been  a  pardon, 
for  the  mother  seemed  pleased  with  the  daugh- 
ter's progress  in  the  world,  which  must  have 

247 


Mis s    Primrose 

seemed  to  her  the  realization,  however  ironical, 
of  her  discarded  hopes;  and  it  was  she  herself 
who  had  divulged  the  contents  of  the  letter.  To 
the  cautious  curiosity  manifested  by  elderly  la- 
dies of  Grassy  Ford,  who  called  upon  her  now 
more  often  than  had  been  their  wont,  as  she 
took  some  pleasure  in  reminding  them,  to  their 
obvious  discomfiture,  and  to  all  other  hints  and 
allusions  she  turned  her  deafer  ear,  while  to  di- 
rect questions  she  contented  herself  with  the 
simple  answer: 

"Peggy's  well." 

"You  hear  from  her  often,  I  suppose?"  some 
caller  ventured.  The  reply  was  puzzling: 

"Oh,  a  mother's  apt  to." 

She  said  it  so  sadly,  looking  away  across  the 
farm,  that  Letitia's  informant  as  she  told  the 
story  burst  into  tears. 

"She's  a  miserable  woman,  Miss  Letitia,  de- 
pend upon  it.  She's  a  miserable,  broken-down, 
heart-sick  creature  for  what  she's  done.  'You 
hear  often,  I  suppose?'  said  I.  'A  mother's 
apt  to,'  says  she,  and  turned  away  from  me 
with  a  face  so  lonesome  as  would  break  your 
heart." 

For  myself,  as  Letitia  told  me,  I  had  my  own 
248 


An    Unexpected  Letter 

notion  of  the  mother's  sad  and  evasive  answer, 
but  I  held  my  peace. 

It  was  the  coldest  winter  we  had  known  in 
years.  For  weeks  at  a  time  our  valley  was  a 
bowl  of  snow,  roads  were  impassable,  and  stock 
was  frozen  on  the  upland  farms.  Suddenly 
there  came  a  thaw:  the  sun  shone  brightly,  the 
great  drifts  sank  and  melted  into  muddy  streams, 
and  early  one  morning  Farmer  Bell,  his  shaggy 
mare  and  old  top-buggy  splashed  with  mire  and 
his  white  face  spattered,  stopped  at  the  post-of- 
fice and  called  loudly  to  the  passers-by. 
"Old  Neal's  dead  and  I  want  the  coroner." 
To  the  crowd  that  gathered  he  told  the  story. 
Neal's  wife,  waiting  up  for  him  Christmas  night, 
had  made  an  effort  to  reach  the  Bells  to  ask  for 
tidings,  but  the  wind  was  frightful  and  the  drifts 
already  beyond  her  depth.  She  had  gone  back 
hoping  that  he  was  safe  by  his  tavern  fire,  but 
she  sat  by  her  own  all  night,  listening  to  the 
roaring  of  the  wind  and  the  rattling  windows 
through  which  the  snow  came  drifting  in.  At 
dawn,  from  an  upper  chamber,  she  peered  out 
upon  a  sight  that  is  seldom  seen  even  in  these 
northern  hills.  The  storm  was  over,  but  the 
world  was  buried  white;  roads  and  fences  and 

249 


Miss    Primrose 

even  the  smaller  trees  were  no  longer  visible, 
and  the  barn  and  a  neighbor's  cottage  were  un- 
familiar in  their  uncouth  hoods.  For  days  she 
remained  imprisoned  on  the  lonely  farm.  She 
cut  paths  from  the  woodshed  to  the  near-by 
barn  and  saved  the  cattle  in  their  stalls.  Then 
the  thaw  came,  and  she  reached  the  Bells. 

Hitching  his  mare  to  his  lightest  buggy,  for 
the  roads  were  rivers,  the  farmer  drove  through 
the  slush  and  the  remnant  drifts  to  the  corner 
tavern  where  Neal  had  been.  The  bartender 
stared  blankly  at  his  first  question. 

"Neal?"  he  stammered  out  at  last. 

"  Yes,  Neal !  John  Neal,  confound  you !  Can't 
you  speak?" 

The  man  laid  the  glass  he  was  wiping  upon  the 
bar. 

"Neal  left  here  Christmas  day — along  about 
four  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  storm  began." 

As  Bell  drove  homeward  he  saw  two  figures  at 
the  Neal  farm-gate— that  gate  which  Peggy  had 
closed  behind  her — and,  coming  nearer,  he  made 
out  his  own  man  Tom  and  the  widow,  lifting 
the  body  from  the  melting  snow. 

Peggy  Neal  did  not  come  to  her  father's 
funeral.  Letitia  herself  would  have  written  the 

250 


An    Unexpected  Letter 

news  to  her,  for  the  woman,  dry-eyed  and  dumb 
and  sitting  by  the  coffin-side,  had  aged  in  a  day 
and  was  now  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

"Shall  I  write  to  Peggy?"  Letitia  asked  her, 
but  she  did  not  hear.  Twice  the  question  was 
repeated,  but  they  got  no  answer,  so  Letitia 
wrote,  and  laid  the  letter  on  the  casket,  open 
and  unaddressed.  It  was  never  sent. 


V 


SURPRISES 

BOGGING  homeward  from  a  country 
call  one  afternoon  in  May,  I  was 
admiring  the  apple  -  orchards  and 
the  new -ploughed  fields  between 
them,  when  I  chanced  upon  my  son 
Robin  with  a  handful  of  columbine,  gathered 
among  the  Sun  Dial  rocks. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "is  that  you,  father?"  It  is 
an  innocent  way  of  his  when  he  has  anything  in 
particular  to  conceal.. 

"At  any  rate,"  I  replied,  "you  are  my  son." 
He  smiled  amiably  and  I  cranked  the  wheel, 
making  room  for  him  beside  me. 
"Columbine,"  I  remarked. 
"Yes." 

"Letitia  will  be  pleased,"  I  said. 
Now  I  knew  it  was  for  the  Parker  girl — Rita 
Parker,  who  blushes  so  when  I  chance  to  meet 
252 


Surprises 

her  that  I  know  now  how  it  feels  to  be  an  ogre, 
a  much-maligned  being,  too,  for  whom  I  never 
had  any  sympathy  before. 

"I  just  saw  a  redstart,"  remarked  my  son. 

"  So  ?"  I  replied.  "  Did  you  notice  any  bobo- 
links?" 

"Did  I?"  he  answered.  "I  saw  a  million  of 
them." 

"You  did?" 

"Down  in  the  meadows  there." 

"A  million  of  them?" 

"  Almost  a  million, ' '  he  replied.  "  Every  grass- 
stalk  had  one  on  it,  teetering  and  singing  away 
like  anything." 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  Rita  was  with  you." 

"Rita!"  he  exclaimed,  reddening. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said.  "You  saw  so  many 
birds,  you  know." 

It  was  a  little  hard  upon  the  boy,  but  I  broke 
the  ensuing  silence  with  some  comments  on 
the  weather,  and  having  him  wholly  at  my 
mercy  then,  I  chose  a  subject  which  so  long 
had  charmed  me,  I  had  been  on  the  point 
of  telling  him  time  and  again,  yet  had  re- 
frained. 

"Robin,"  said  I,  "you  will  be  a  graduate  in  a 
"  253 


Miss    Primrose 

day  or  two.  What  do  you  say  to  a  summer  in 
England,  boy?" 

He  caught  my  hand — so  violently  that  the 
rein  was  drawn  and  Pegasus  turned  obediently 
into  the  ditch  and  stopped. 

"England,  father!" 

"If  we  are  spared,"  I  said,  getting  the  buggy 
into  the  road  again. 

"All  of  us!"  he  cried. 

"No." 

"But  you'll  come,  father?"  He  said  it  so 
anxiously  that  I  was  touched.  It  isn't  always 
that  a  boy  cares  to  lug  his  father. 

"I  should  like  to,"  I  said,  "but— no." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  cannot  leave,"  I  replied.  "Jamieson's 
going.  We  can't  both  go." 

"Oh,  bother  Jamieson!"  Robin  exclaimed. 
"What  does  he  want  to  choose  our  year  for? 
Why  can't  he  wait  till  next?" 

"  It's  his  wife,"  I  explained.  "  She's  ill  again. 
But  you  go,  Robin,  and  take  Letitia." 

"When  do  we  start?" 

"In  June." 

11  This  June?" 

"Next  month.  I've  laid  out  the  journey  for 
254 


Surprises 

you  on  a  map,  and  I've  got  the  names  of  the 
inns  to  stop  at,  and  what  it  will  cost  you,  and 
everything  else." 

"But  when  did  you  think  of  it?"  asked  my 
son. 

"Last  fall." 

"  Last  fall!     Does  Aunt  Letty  know ?" 

"Partly,"  I  said.  "She  knows  you're  going, 
but  not  herself.  It's  a  little  surprise  for  her. 
You  may  tell  her  yourself,  now,  while  I  stop  at 
the  office." 

He  scrambled  out  and  hitched  my  horse  for 
me,  so  I  held  the  flowers.  He  flushed  a  little  as 
he  took  them. 

"Father,  you're  a  trump,"  he  said. 

I  bowed  slightly:  it  is  wise  to  be  courteous 
even  to  a  son.  I  had  stopped  at  the  office  to 
get  the  map,  and  an  hour  later  Letitia  met  me  in 
our  doorway. 

"Bertram!"  she  said,  taking  my  hand. 

"Robin  told  you?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  it's  beautiful,  Bertram,  but  I 
cannot  go." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said. 

"But  you?" 

"I  shall  do  very  nicely." 
255 


Miss    Primrose 

"But  the  cost?" 

"Will  be  nothing,"  I  said.  "The  boy  must 
not  go  alone." 

"That's  not  the  reason  you  are  sending  me, 
Bertram." 

"It's  a  good  one,"  I  replied. 

"No,"  she  insisted,  shaking  her  head. 

"You  have  been  good  to  the  boy,  Letitia,"  I 
explained.  "This  is  only  a  way  of  saying  that 
I  know." 

"You  do  not  need  to  say  it,"  she  replied.  "  I 
have  done  nothing." 

"You  have  done  everything,  Letitia — for  us 
both." 

The  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  My  own 
eyes — 

"You  have  loved  Dove's  husband  and  son," 
I  told  her.  "We  shall  not  forget  it." 

Her  face  was  radiant. 

"It  has  been  nothing  for  me  to  do,"  she  said. 
"Loving  no  one  in  particular,  I  have  had  the 
time  to  love  every  one,  don't  you  see?  Why,  all 
my  life,  Bertram,  I've  loved  other  people's  dogs, 
and  other  people's  children"  -she  paused  a 
moment  and  added,  smiling  through  her  tears — 
"and  other  people's  husbands,  I  suppose." 
256 


Surprises 

"You  will  go?"  I  asked. 

"I  should  love  to  go." 

"You  will  go,  Letitia?" 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said. 

That  evening  I  took  from  my  pocket  a  brand- 
new  map  of  the  British  Isles — I  mean  brand-new 
last  fall.  Many  a  pleasant  hour  I  had  spent 
that  winter  at  the  office  with  a  red  guide-book 
and  the  map  before  me  on  my  desk.  With  no 
little  pride  I  spread  it  now  on  the  sitting-room 
table  which  Letitia  had  cleared  for  me. 

"What  are  the  red  lines,  father?"  asked  my 
son.  He  had  returned  breathless  from  telling 
the  Parker  girl. 

"  Those  in  red  ink,"  I  replied,  "  I  drew  myself. 
It  is  your  route.  There's  Southampton — where 
you  land  —  and  there's  London  —  and  there's 
Windsor  and  Oxford  and  Stratford  and  War- 
wick and  Kenilworth — :and  here,"  I  cried,  sweep- 
ing my  hand  suddenly  downward  to  the  left — 
"here's  Devonshire!" 

"  Where  father  was  a  boy,"  Letitia  murmured, 
touching  the  pinkish  county  tenderly  with  her 
hand. 

Ah,  I  was  primed  for  them !  There  was  not  a 
question  they  could  ask  that  I  could  not  answer. 
257 


Miss    Primrose 

There  was  not  a  village  they  could  name,  I  could 
not  instantly  put  my  finger  on.  Those  winter 
hours  had  not  been  spent  in  vain.  I  knew  the 
inns — the  King's  Arms,  the  Golden  Lion,  the 
White  Hart,  the  Star  and  Anchor,  the  George 
and  Dragon,  the  Ring  o'  Bells!  I  knew  where 
the  castles  were — I  had  marked  them  blue.  I 
knew  the  battle-fields — I  had  made  them  crim- 
son. For  each  cathedral — a  purple  cross.  Each 
famous  school — a  golden  star.  Never,  I  believe, 
was  there  such  a  map  before — for  convenience, 
for  ready  reference :  one  look  at  the  margin  where 
I  made  the  notes — a  glance  at  the  map — and 
there  you  were! 

"Oh,  it  is  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Letitia. 

"Isn't  it?"  I  cried. 

"You  should  have  it  patented,"  said  my  son. 

"Suppose,"  I  suggested,  "you  ask  me  some- 
thing —  something  hard  now.  Ask  me  some- 
thing hard." 

I  took  a  turn  with  my  cigar.  Robin  knitted 
his  brows,  but  could  think  of  nothing.  Letitia 
pondered. 

"Where's—" 

She  hesitated. 

"Out  with  it!"  I  urged. 
258 


Surprises 

"Where's  Tavistock?"  she  asked. 

I  thought  a  moment. 

"Is  it  a  castle?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Is  it  a  battle-field?" 

"No." 

" Is  it  just  a  town,  then?" 

"Yes,  just  a  town." 

"  Did  anything  famous  happen  there?" 

She  hesitated. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "perhaps  nothing  very  fa- 
mous— but  it's  an  old  little  town — one  that  I've 
heard  of,  that  is  all." 

Well,  she  did  have  me.  It  was  not  very  fa- 
mous, and  only  a — an  idea  came  to  me. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  shutting  my  eyes  a  moment, 
"that  town's  in  Devon." 

Letitia  nodded. 

"  See,"  I  said.  Adjusting  my  glasses,  and  peer- 
ing a  moment  at  the  pinkish  patch,  I  tapped  it, 
Tavistock,  with  my  finger-nail.  "Right  here," 
I  said. 

We  made  a  night  of  it — that  is,  it  was  mid- 
night when  I  folded  my  map  and  locked  it  away 
with  the  guide-book  and  the  table  of  English 
money  I  had  made  myself.  There  was  one  in 
259 


Miss    Primrose 

the  book,  it  is  true,  but  for  ready  reference,  for 
convenience  in  emergencies,  it  did  not  compare 
with  mine — mine  worked  three  ways. 

A  fortnight  later  I  had  the  tickets  in  my  hand 
— ss.  Atlantis,  date  of  sailing,  the  tenth  of  June. 
I  myself  was  to  steal  a  day  or  two  and  wave 
farewell  to  them  from  the  pier.  Robin  already 
had  packed  his  grip;  indeed,  he  repacked  it 
daily,  to  get  the  hang  of  it,  he  said.  It  was  a 
new  one  which  I  had  kept  all  winter  at  the 
office  in  the  bottom  of  a  cupboard,  and  it  bore 
the  initials,  R.  W.,  stamped  on  the  end.  And 
he  had  a  housewife — a  kind  of  cousin  to  a  needle- 
book — stuffed  full  of  handy  mending-things,  pre- 
sented by  the  Parker  girl.  The  boy  was  radiant, 
but  as  June  drew  nigh  I  saw  he  had  something 
heavy  on  his  mind.  A  dozen  times  he  had 
begun  to  speak  to  me,  privately,  but  had  changed 
the  subject  or  had  walked  away.  I  could  not 
imagine  what  ailed  the  fellow.  He  seemed  rest- 
less; even,  as  I  fancied,  a  little  sad  at  times, 
which  troubled  me.  I  made  opportunities  for 
him  to  speak,  but  he  failed  to  do  so,  either 
through  neglect  or  fear.  I  saw  him  often  at  the 
office,  where  he  was  always  bursting  in  upon  me 
with  some  new  plan  or  handy  matter  for  his 

260 


Surprises 

precious  bag.     He  had  bought  a  razor  and  a 
brush  and  strop. 

"But  what  are  they  for?"  I  asked,  amazed. 
A  blush  mantled  his  beardless  cheeks. 

"Those?     Oh — just  to  be  sure,"  he  said. 

Now  what  could  be  troubling  the  lad,  I  won- 
dered? It  was  something  not  always  on  his 
mind,  for  he  seemed  to  forget  it  in  preparations, 
but  it  lurked  near  by  to  spring  out  upon  his 
blithest  moments.  His  face  would  be  shining; 
an  instant  later  it  would  fall,  and  he  would  walk 
to  the  window  and  gaze  out  thoughtfully  into 
the  street,  in  a  way  that  touched  me  to  the  heart, 
for,  remember,  this  was  to  be  my  first  parting 
with  the  boy.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the 
more  perplexed  I  was;  and  the  more  I  wondered, 
the  more  I  felt  it  might  be  my  duty  to  speak 
myself. 

"Robin,"  I  said  one  day,  and  as  casually  as  I 
could  make  my  tone,  "did  you  want  to  tell  me 
anything?  What  is  it?  Speak,  my  boy." 

We  were  alone  together  in  my  inner  office  and 
the  door  was  shut.  He  walked  resolutely  to  the 
desk  where  I  was  sitting. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "I  have." 

My  heart  was  beating,  he  looked  so  grave. 
261 


Miss    Primrose 

"Well,"  I  remarked,  "you  have  nothing  to 
fear,  you  know." 

"Father,"  he  said,  doggedly,  "it's  about— 
it's  about — 

"Yes?"     I  encouraged  him. 

"It's  about  this  trip." 

"This  trip?" 

"Yes.     It's  about— father,  you'll  tell  her—" 

"Tell  her?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes.     You  tell  her." 

"  Tell  whom  ?     Tell  what  ?" 

"Why,  Aunt  Letty." 

"Aunt  Letty!     Tell  Aunt  Letty  what?" 

He  blurted  it  fiercely : 

"  About  her  hat." 

' '  Her  hat !     Her  hat !     Good  Lord,  what  hat  ? " 

"Why,  her  Sunday  hat!" 

"You  mean  her — ' 

"Why,  yes,  father!     You  know  that  hat." 

I  knew  that  hat. 

"Do  you  object,"  I  asked,  "to  your  aunt's 
best  Sunday  hat?" 

His  scowl  vanished  and  his  face  broke  into 
smiles. 

"That's  it,"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  I  assured  him,  keeping 
262 


Surprises 

my  own  face  steady — no  easy  matter,  for,  as  I 
say,  I  knew  the  hat.  "  Don't  be  alarmed,  my 
son.  She  shall  have  a  new  one,  if  that  will 
please  you." 

His  smiles  vanished.  He  seemed  suspicious. 
His  tone  was  cautiousness  itself. 

"  But  who  will  buy  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  you!"  I  said. 

He  leaped  to  my  side. 

"/?" 

"You,"  I  repeated. 

He  laughed  hysterically — whooped  is  the  bet- 
ter word. 

"You  wait!"  he  cried,  and,  fairly  dancing,  he 
seized  his  cap  and  rushed  madly  for  the  door. 
It  shut  behind  him,  but  as  swiftly  opened  again. 

"Oh,  dad,"  he  said,  beaming  upon  me  from 
the  crack,  "it  '11  be  a  stunner!  You'll  see." 

It  was. 


VI 

AN   OLD   FRIEND   OP   OURS 

IH,  I  know  the  town,"  I  had  told 
them  confidently — had  I  not  been 
there  in  18 — ?  But  no,  it  was  not 
my  town.  It  was  not  my  New 
York  at  all  that  we  found  at  our 
journey's  end,  but  belonged  apparently  to  the 
mob  we  fell  among,  bags  and  bundles,  by  the 
station  steps,  till  from  our  cabman's  manner, 
when  I  mildly  marvelled  at  the  fare  he  charged 
us,  the  place,  I  suspected,  belonged  to  him. 
Four  days  and  nights  we  heard  it  rumbling 
about  us.  Robin  got  a  mote  in  his  eye,  Letitia 
lost  her  brand-new  parasol,  and  I  broke  my 
glasses — but  we  saw  the  parks  and  the  squares 
and  the  tall  buildings  and  the  statue  which 
Johnny  Keats  never  climbed.  Reluctantly,  for 
the  day  was  waning  as  we  stood  on  the  Battery 
looking  out  at  it  across  the  bay,  we  followed  his 

264 


An    Old  Friend  of   Ours 

example.  On  the  third  afternoon  Letitia  pro- 
posed a  change  of  plans.  Her  eyes,  she  confessed, 
were  a  little  tired  with  our  much  looking.  Why 
not  hunt  old  friends? 

"  Old  friends  ?"  I  asked.  "  Whom  do  we  know 
in  New  York,  Letitia?" 

"Why,  don't  you  remember  Hiram  Ptolemy 
and  Peggy  Neal?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  I  said—"  the  Egyptologist!  But 
the  addresses?" 

"  I  have  them  both,"  she  replied.  "  Mrs.  Neal 
came  to  the  house  crying,  and  gave  me  Peggy's, 
and  begged  me  to  find  her  if  I  could.  And  Mr. 
Ptolemy — why  can  I  never  remember  the  name 
of  his  hotel?" 

"You  have  heard  from  him  then?" 

She  blushed. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "It's  a  famous  hotel, 
I'm  sure.  The  name  was  familiar." 

"Hotel,"  I  remarked.  "Hiram  must  be  get- 
ting on  then?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  fumbling  with  her  address- 
book.  "  It's  the  Mills  Hotel." 

"And  a  famous  place,"  I  observed,  smiling. 
"  So  he  lives  at  a  Mills  Hotel  ?" 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  continued,  "  I  have 
265 


Mis s    Primrose 

been  so  busy.  He  wrote  me  only  the  other  day, 
that,  after  all  these  years — mercy!  how  long  it 
has  been  since  he  fed  us  lemon-drops! — after  all 
these  years  of  tramping  from  publisher  to  pub- 
lisher, footsore  and  weary,  as  he  said,  he  had 
found  at  last  a  grand,  good  man." 

"  One,"  I  inferred,  "  who  will  give  his  discovery 
to  the  world." 

"Oh,  more  than  that,"  explained  Letitia, 
"this  dear,  old,  white-haired — 

"  Egyptologist,"  I  broke  in. 

"Publisher,"  she  said,  with  spirit,  "has  prom- 
ised him  to  start  a  magazine  and  make  him 
editor — a  scientific  magazine  devoted  solely  to 
Egyptology,  and  called  The  Obelisk." 

"Well,  well,  well,  well,"  I  said.  "We  must 
congratulate  the  little  man.  Perhaps  you  may 
even  be  impelled  to  recon — 

"Now,  Bertram,"  began  Letitia,  in  that  tone 
and  manner  I  knew  of  old — so  I  put  on  my  hat, 
and,  freeing  Robin  to  likelier  pleasures,  we  drove 
at  once  to  "  the  "  Mills  Hotel.  Letitia 's  address- 
book  had  named  the  street,  which  she  thought 
unkempt  and  cluttered  and  noisy  for  an  editor 
to  live  in,  though  doubtless  he  had  wished  to 
be  near  his  desk. 

266 


An    Old  Friend  of   Ours 

"  Is  Mr.  Hiram  Ptolemy  in?"  inquired  Letitia. 

"  I'll  see,"  said  the  clerk,  consulting  his  ledgers. 

He  returned  at  once. 

"  There  is  no  one  here  of  that  name,  madam." 

"Strange!"  she  replied.  "He  was  here — let 
me  see — but  two  weeks  ago." 

"No  madam,"  he  said.  "You  must  mean 
the  other  Mills  Hotel." 

"Is  there  another  Mills  Hotel?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.     "Hotel  number  — " 

"I  thought"  said  Letitia,  "this  place  seem- 
ed—" 

She  glanced  about  her. 

" But,"  said  I,  "the  address  is  of  this  one." 

"True,"  she  replied.  "Did  you  look  in  the 
P's?"  she  inquired,  sweetly. 

"Why,  no;  in  the  T's.     You  said—" 

"But  it's  spelled  with  a  P,"  she  explained. 
"P-t-o-1— " 

Then  her  face  reddened. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "You  are  right — 
quite  right.  It  is  the  other  hotel.  But  can 
you  tell  me,  please,  if  Mr.  Hiram  De  Lancey 
Percival  lives  here?" 

The  clerk  smiled  broadly. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Percival  does,  but 
267 


Miss    Primrose 

he's  out  at  present.     You  will  find  him,  however, 
at  this  address." 

He  wrote  it  down  for  her  and  she  took  it 
nervously. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  glancing  at  it.  "  Don't 
be  silly,  Bertram.  Yes,  it's  the  publisher's.  Let 
us  go.  Good-day,  sir." 

It  was  not  a  large  publisher's,  we  discovered, 
for  the  place  was  a  single  and  dingy  store-room 
in  a  small  side  street.  Its  walls  were  shelved, 
filled  from  the  floor  to  the  very  ceiling — volume 
after  volume,  sets  upon  sets,  most  of  them  shop- 
worn and  bearing  the  imprints  of  by-gone  years. 
Between  the  shelves  other  books,  equally  old  and 
faded,  and  offered  for  sale  at  trifling  prices,  lay 
on  tables  in  that  tempting  disarray  and  dust 
which  hints  of  treasures  overlooked  and  waiting 
only  for  recognition — always  on  the  higher  shelf, 
or  at  the  bottom  of  the  other  pile.  The  window 
was  filled  with  encyclopaedias  long  outgrown  by 
a  wiser  world,  and  standing  beside  them,  and 
looking  back  towards  the  store-room's  farther 
end,  was  a  melancholy  vista  of  discarded  and 
forgotten  literature. 

"Who  buys  them?"  asked  Letitia. 

"Who  wrote  them?"  I  replied. 
268 


An    Old  Friend  of   Ours 

A  bell  had  tinkled  at  our  entrance,  but  no 
one  came  to  us,  so  we  wandered  down  one  nar- 
row aisle  till  we  reached  the  end.  And  there, 
at  the  right,  in  an  alcove  hitherto  undiscernable, 
and  at  an  old,  worm-eaten  desk  dimly  lighted 
by  an  alley  window,  sat  our  old  friend  Ptolemy, 
writing,  and  unaware  of  our  approach.  It  was 
the  same  Hiram,  we  observed,  though  a  little 
shabbier,  perhaps,  and  scraggier-bearded  than  of 
old,  but  the  same  little,  blinking  scientist  we  had 
known,  in  steel -bowed  spectacles,  scratching 
away  in  a  rickety  office  -  chair.  He  was  quite 
oblivious  of  the  eyes  upon  him,  lost,  doubtless, 
in  some  shadowy  passage  of  Egyptian  lore. 

I  coughed  slightly,  and  he  turned  about,  peer- 
ing in  amazement. 

"Miss  Primrose!  Dr.  Weatherby!  I  do  be- 
lieve!" he  exclaimed,  and,  dropping  his  pen, 
staggered  up  to  us  and  shook  our  hands,  his 
celluloid  cuffs  rattling  about  his  meagre  wrists 
and  his  eyes  watering  with  agitation  behind  his 
spectacles. 

"  You — in  New  York!"  he  piped.  "I — why, 
I'm  astounded — I'm  astounded — but  delighted, 
too  —  delighted  to  see  you  both!  But  you 
mustn't  stand." 

18  269 


Miss    Primrose 

I  looked  curiously  at  Letitia  as  he  brought  us 
chairs,  setting  them  beside  his  desk.  She  was  a 
little  flushed,  but  very  gracious  to  the  little 
man. 

"Miss  Primrose,"  he  said,  fidgeting  about  her, 
"allow  me — allow  me,"  offering  what  seemed  to 
be  the  stabler  of  the  wooden  seats.  She  had  ac- 
cepted it  and  was  about  to  sit,  when  he  stopped 
her  anxiously  with  a  cry,  "Wait!  —  wait,  I  beg 
of  you!"  and  replaced  it  with  his  own.  His  was 
an  elbow  chair  whose  sagging  leathern  seat  had 
been  reinforced  with  an  old  green  atlas,  its 
pasteboard  cover  still  faintly  decorated  with  a 
pictured  globe. 

Seating  himself  again  beside  his  desk,  he 
turned  to  us  beaming  with  an  air  of  host,  and 
listened  with  many  nervous  twitchings  and 
furtive  glances  at  Letitia,  while  I  explained  our 
presence  there. 

"  It's  a  grand  journey — a  grand  journey,  Miss 
Primrose,"  he  declared.  "I  only  wish  I  were 
going,  too." 

"Tell  us,"  said  Letitia,  kindly,  "about  The 
Obelisk.  Is  the  first  number  ready  yet?" 

He  sat  up  blithely,  wetting  his  lips,  and  with 
that  odd  mannerism  which  recalled  his  visit  to 
270 


An    Old  Friend   of   Ours 

Grassy  Ford,  he  touched  with  one  finger  the  tip 
of  his  celluloid  collar,  and  thrust  out  his  chin. 

"Almost,"  he  said.  "It's  almost  ready.  It 
'11  be  out  soon — very  soon  now — it  '11  be  out 
soon.  I've  got  it  here — right  here — right  here 
on  the  desk." 

He  touched  fondly  the  very  manuscript  we 
had  surprised  him  writing. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "The  Obelisk,  volume 
one,  number  one." 

"And  the  great  stone  of  Iris-Iris?"  queried 
Letitia. 

He  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and  exclaimed, 
excitedly,  pointing  to  a  drawer  in  the  paper- 
buried  desk: 

"Right  there!  The  cut  is  there! — cut  of  the 
inscription,  you  know.  It's  to  be  the  frontis- 
piece. Here :  page  one — my  story — story  of  the 
translation  and  how  I  made  it,  and  what  it 
means  to  the  civilized  world.  Don't  fail  to  read 
it!" 

He  wiped  his  glasses. 

"When,"  I  asked,  "will  it  be  out?" 

"Soon,"  he  replied.  "Soon,  I  hope.  Not 
later  than  the  fall." 

"That's  some  time  off  yet,"  I  remarked. 
271 


Miss    Primrose 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  replied,  anx- 
iously. "  You  do  not  understand,  Dr.  Weather- 
by.  A  magazine  requires  great  preparation- 
great  preparation,  sir — and  particularly  a  scien- 
tific magazine,  Dr.  Weatherby." 

"Ah,"  I  said.     "I  see." 

"Great  preparation,  sir,"  the  little  man  went 
on,  leaning  forward  and  tapping  me  on  the 
knee.  "There  must  be  subscribers,  sir." 

"To  be  sure,"  I  assented.  "They  are  quite 
essential,  I  believe." 

"Very,"  said  Hiram  Ptolemy.  "Very,  sir. 
We  must  have  fifty  at  the  fewest  before  we  go 
to  press.  My  publisher  is  obdurate — fifty,  he 
says,  or  he  will  not  invest  a  penny — not  a  penny, 
sir." 

"  And  you  have  already —  ?"  I  inquired.  I  was 
sorry  afterwards  to  have  asked  the  question. 
It  was  not  delicate.  I  asked  it  thoughtlessly, 
intending  only  to  evince  my  interest  in  the  cause. 
Coloring  slightly,  he  wet  his  lips  and  cleared  his 
throat  before  replying. 

"One,  sir;  only  one,  as  yet." 

"Then  put  me  down  number  two,"  I  said, 
eager  to  retrieve  my  blunder. 

His  face  lighted,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and 
272 


An    Old  Friend   of   Ours 

turning  an  embarrassed  countenance  upon  Le- 
titia,  and  then  on  me,  he  stammered: 

"But  I—" 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  Bertram,"  said  Letitia, 
"we  must  subscribe." 

The  Egyptologist  swallowed  hard. 

"I  think—"  he  began. 

"  Bertram  Weatherby  is  the  name,  Mr.  Per- 
cival,"  said  Letitia,  in  a  clear,  insistent  tone, 
and  at  her  bidding  the  little  man  scrawled  it 
down,  but  so  tremulously  at  first  that  he  tore  up 
the  sheet  and  tried  again. 

"And  the  subscription  price?"  I  inquired, 
opening  my  pocket-book. 

"You — you  needn't  pay  now,  doctor,"  he 
replied. 

"  Is  one  dollar  a  year,"  said  Letitia,  promptly, 
and  I  laid  the  bill  upon  the  desk. 

Hiram  Ptolemy  touched  it  gingerly,  fumbled 
it,  dropped  it  by  his  chair,  and,  still  preserving 
his  embarrassed  silence,  fished  it  up  again  from 
the  cluttered  floor.  Ten  minutes  later,  when 
we  said  farewell  to  him,  he  still  held  it  in  his 
hand. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  him?"  I  asked 
Letitia,  as  we  drove  away,  glancing  back  at  that 

273 


Miss    Primrose 

odd  and  shamefaced  figure  standing  wistfully 
in  the  doorway. 

" The  other  subscriber,"  she  replied.  "  Didn't 
you  guess?" 

"What!"  I  said.     "You,  Letitia?" 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"Poor  little  man!" 


VII 

SUZANNE 

was  evening  when  we  set  out,  not 
without  trepidation,  to  find  Peggy 
Neal.  We  had  dined — over-dined — 
in  a  room  of  gilt  and  mirrors  and 
shining  silver,  watching  the  other 
tables  with  their  smiling  groups  or  puzzling 
pairs;  some  so  ill-assorted  that  we  strove  vainly 
to  solve  their  mystery,  others  so  oddly  man- 
nered for  a  public  place,  we  thought — the  men 
so  brazen  in  their  attentions,  the  women  so 
prinked  and  absurdly  gowned  and  unabashed, 
Letitia  at  first  was  not  quite  sure  we  were  rightly 
there. 

"Still,"  she  said,  "there  are  nice  people  here 
— why,  even  children!" 

"The  place  is  famous,"  I  protested. 
"I  suppose  it  must  be  respectable,"  she  re- 
plied, "but  I  never  saw  such  a  mixture!" 

275 


Miss    Primrose 

She  gazed  wonderingly  about  her. 

"I  suppose  it  must  be  New  York,"  she  said. 

It  was  half -past  eight  when  we  entered  the 
street  again.  We  drove  at  once  to  the  number 
Mrs.  Neal  had  given,  riding  silently  and  a  little 
nervously,  but  still  marvelling  at  the  scene  we 
had  left  behind  us,  a  strange  setting  for  two 
such  elder  village-folk  as  we,  making  us  wonder 
if  we  had  missed  much  or  little  by  living  our 
lives  so  greenly  and  far  away. 

"I  hope  she  will  be  at  home,"  said  Letitia. 
"Every  one  seemed  to  be  going  to  the  the- 
atre." 

"For  my  part,"  I  confessed,  "I  rather  hope 
we  shall  not  find  her." 

"But  why,  Bertram?" 

I  could  not  say.  The  cab  stopped.  There 
were  lights  in  the  house,  and,  leaving  Letitia,  I 
went  up  the  steps  and  pulled  the  bell.  The 
household  was  at  home,  apparently,  for  I  heard 
voices  and  the  music  of  a  piano  as  I  stood  wait- 
ing at  the  door.  It  was  one  of  the  older  streets, 
ill-lighted  and  lined  monotonously  by  those  red- 
brick fronts  so  fashionable  in  a  former  day. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  colored  maid,  and 
there  was  a  gush  of  laughter  and  the  voices  of 

276 


Suzanne 

men  and  women,  with  the  tinkling  undercurrent 
of  a  waltz. 

"  Is  Miss  Neal  at  home?"  I  asked. 

"Miss  who?" 

"Miss  Neal." 

"Miss  Neal?" 

"Miss  Peggy  Neal." 

She  hesitated.  "I'll  see,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  come  in,  suh?" 

"  No,"  I  replied.     "  I'll  wait  out  here." 

She  returned  presently. 

"Did  you  say  Miss  Peggy  Neal,  suh?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "Miss  Peggy  Neal." 

"Don't  any  such  lady  live  heah,  suh." 

"Strange,"  I  murmured,  and  was  about  to 
turn  away  when  a  woman  clad  in  a  floating 
light-blue  robe,  her  face  indefinite  in  the  dimly 
illumined  hallway,  but  apparently  young  and 
pretty,  or  even  beautiful,  perhaps,  and  with  an 
amazing  quantity  of  golden  hair,  slipped  through 
the  portieres  and  pushed  aside  the  maid. 

"I  am  Peggy  Neal,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"What  is  wanted?" 

"You!"  I  gasped,  but  Letitia  had  left  the 
carriage  and  was  at  my  shoulder. 

"Peggy!"  she  said. 

277 


Miss    Primrose 

"Miss  Primrose!  And  this  is — Dr.  Weather- 
by!" 

"Dear  Peggy,"  Letitia  murmured,  kissing  the 
astonished  girl  on  both  powdered  cheeks.  "  But 
how  you've  changed!  You're  so  pale,  Peggy — 
and  your  eyes — and  your  hair — Peggy,  wha* 
have  you  done  to  your  hair?" 

"Yes,  my  hair,"  murmured  Peggy. 

"Why,  it  used  to  be  jet,"  Letitia  said.  "  But 
you  don't  ask  us  in,  my  dear — and  here  we've 
come  all  the  long  way  from  Grassy  Ford  to  see 
you." 

"Hush!"  said  Peggy,  and  Letitia  paused,  for 
the  first  time  noting  the  voices  in  the  inner  rooms. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "I  see:  you  have  a 
party." 

"Yes,"  Peggy  answered.  "We — we  have  a 
party." 

"I  think  we  should  go,  Letitia,"  I  interposed, 
but  she  did  not  hear  me. 

"I  can't  get  over  your  hair,"  she  murmured, 
holding  Peggy  at  arm's -length  from  her  and 
then  turning  her  head  a  little  to  look  about  her. 
"Do  they  smoke  at  your  parties?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  yes,"  laughed  Peggy,  "all  the  men 
smoke,  you  know." 

278 


Suzanne 

"But  I  thought,"  said  Letitia,  "I  saw  a 
woman  with  a  cigarette." 

"It  may  have  been  a  —  candy  cigarette," 
Peggy  answered. 

"That's  true,"  said  Letitia,  "for  I've  seen 
them  at  Marvin's  in  Grassy  Ford." 

The  portieres  before  which  Peggy  stood,  one 
hand  grasping  them,  parted  suddenly  behind 
her  head,  and  the  face  of  another  girl  was  thrust 
out  rudely  behind  her  own  and  staring  into 
mine.  It  was  a  rouged  and  powdered  face,  with 
hard-set  eyes  that  did  not  flinch  as  she  gazed 
mockingly  upon  me,  crying  in  a  voice  that  filled 
the  hall  with  its  harsh  discords: 

"Aha!     Which  one  to-night,  Suzanne?" 

Then  she  saw  Letitia,  and  with  a  smothered 
oath,  withdrew  laughingly.  The  music  and 
talking  ceased  within.  It  was  not  in  the  room 
behind  the  curtains,  but  seemingly  just  beyond 
it,  and  I  could  hear  her  there  relating  her  dis- 
covery as  I  supposed,  though  the  words  were 
indistinct. 

"How  I  hate  that  girl!"  hissed  Peggy,  her 
eyes  black  with  anger. 

"Then  I  wouldn't  have  her,  my  dear,"  said 
Letitia,  soothingly.  "I  should  not  invite  her." 
279 


Miss    Primrose 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter  within,  followed 
by  subdued  voices,  and  I  heard  footsteps  stealth- 
ily approaching.  Peggy  heard  them  too,  no 
doubt,  though  she  was  answering  Letitia's 
questions,  for  she  grasped  the  curtains  more 
tightly  than  before,  one  hand  behind  her  and 
the  other  above  her  head.  As  she  did  so  the 
loose  sleeves  of  her  robe  slipped  down  her  arm, 
disclosing  a  spot  upon  its  whiteness. 

"Peggy,  dear,"  Letitia  said,  anxiously,  "you 
have  hurt  yourself." 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "I  know.  It's  a 
bruise." 

It  was  a  heart,  tattooed.  She  hid  it  in  her 
hair. 

"We  must  go,  Letitia,"  I  urged.  "We  must 
not  keep  Peggy  from  her  friends." 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "  But  I  had  so  much  to 
ask  you,  Peggy,  and  so  much  to  tell." 

The  curtains  parted  again,  this  time  far  above 
Peggy's  head,  and  I  saw  a  man's  eyes  peering 
through.  She  appeared  to  be  disengaging  the 
flounces  about  her  slippered  feet,  but  I  saw  her 
strike  back  savagely  with  her  little  heel,  and  he 
disappeared.  But  other  faces  came,  one  by  one, 
though  Letitia  did  not  see  them.  Her  eyes 
280 


Suzanne 

were  all  for  her  darling  Peggy  whom  she  plied 
with  questions.  How  had  her  health  been? 
How  did  she  like  New  York?  Did  she  never 
yearn  for  little  old  Grassy  Ford  again?  Was 
she  quite  happy? 

"Yes,"  Peggy  murmured,  "quite;  quite 
happy." 

She  spoke  in  a  hurried,  staccato  voice,  in  an 
odd,  cold  monotone.  There  was  no  kindness  in 
her  eyes. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  we  stepped  aside  as 
the  maid  answered  it.  Two  young  men  swag- 
gered in,  flushed  and  garrulous,  nodding,  not 
more  familiarly  to  the  servant  than  to  Peggy 
herself,  who  parted  the  curtains  to  let  them  pass. 
They  gazed  curiously  at  her  guests. 

"Why,  they  kept  on  their  hats!"  Letitia  said, 
in  a  shocked  undertone.  "  Is  it  customary  here, 
Peggy?" 

"Everything,"  was  the  bitter  answer,  "is 
customary  here.  How  is  my  mother?" 

"It  was  your  mother,  Peggy,  who  asked  me 
to  find  you."  Letitia  spoke,  gently.  "She  wants 
to  see  you.  She  is  not  very  strong  since  your 
father's—" 

She  paused. 

281 


Miss    Primrose 

"Is  my  father  dead?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"No;  but  I  thought  as  much;  he  was  such  a 
boozer." 

Letitia  stared.     "Peggy!"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  think,"  the  girl  replied, 
wearily,  seating  herself  upon  the  stairs,  and 
putting  her  chin  upon  her  hands.  She  did  not 
ask  us  to  be  seated. 

"  Letitia,"  I  said,  firmly,  "  come ;  we  must  go." 
I  put  my  hand  upon  the  door-knob. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Peggy  Neal,  rising  again,  "you 
won't  mind  waiting  outside  a  moment  ?  I  have 
something  to  say  to  dear  Miss  Primrose." 

"Certainly,"  I  replied.  "Good-bye,  Miss— 
Neal." 

She  gave  her  hand  to  me.  "Good-bye,  doc- 
tor." Then  she  looked  me  strangely  in  the 
eyes,  saying  in  an  undertone,  "  Mind,  I  shall  tell 
her  nothing" — and  paused  significantly,  adding 
in  a  clearer  tone  again — "but  the  truth." 

I  waited  anxiously  upon  the  steps.  Five 
minutes  passed — ten — twenty — thirty — and  I 
grew  impatient.  Then  the  door  opened,  and 
Letitia  appeared  with  Peggy,  and  radiant 
though  in  tears. 

282 


Suzanne 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  kissing  her,  "dear, 
dear  Peggy.  Oh,  Bertram,  I  have  heard  such  a 
wonderful  story!" 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes,"  Peggy  said  from  the  doorway,  "Miss 
Primrose  is  the  same  enthusiast  she  used  to  be 
when  I  went  to  school  to  her." 

" It  is  like  a  novel,"  declared  Letitia;  "but  we 
must  go.  You  must  forgive  me  for  keeping  you 
so  long  away — from  your  newer  friends." 

"It  is  nothing,"  was  the  answer.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  came." 

"Remember  your  promise,  Peggy!" 

"Oh  yes — my  promise,"  Peggy  murmured. 
"Good-bye,  Miss  Primrose.  Good-bye,  doctor. 
Good-bye.  Good-bye." 

The  carriage-door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  us 
when  Letitia  seized  my  arm. 

"  Bertram, "  she  said,  "  it  is  a  story !  I  thought 
it  was  only  in  books  that  such  things  happened. 
I  would  not  have  missed  this  visit  for  the  world!" 

"But,"  I  said,  "do  you  trust—" 

"  Trust  her  ?    Yes.     A  woman  never  cries  like 

that  when  she's  lying,   Bertram.     Listen:  she 

came  to  New  York  from  Grassy  Ford.     He  was 

nowhere  to  be  found.     He  had  given  her  a  false 

283 


Miss   Primrose 

address.  Then  a  little  girl  was  born  —  dead. 
Oh,  you  can't  imagine  what  that  child's  been 
through,  Bertram^ — the  disgrace,  the  sorrow, 
the  rags  and  poverty,  hunger  even — and  only 
think  how  we  were  eating  and  sleeping  soundly 
in  Grassy  Ford,  all  that  time  she  was  starving 
here!  Then  temptations  came  in  this  miserable, 
this  wicked,  wicked  place !  Oh,  how  can  man — 
Well — she  did  not  dare  to  come  home,  but  stayed 
on  here.  It  was  then  she  took  the  name  Su- 
zanne, to  hide  her  real  one.  Twice — twice,  Ber- 
tram— she  went  down  to  the  river — 

Letitia's  voice  was  breaking. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  all  she  told  me.  But 
just  when  it  all  seemed  darkest,  she  met  this 
good,  kind  woman  with  whom  she  lives." 

"  What!"  I  said.     "  Did  she  tell  you  that ?" 

"  Bertram,  that  woman  saved  her! — saved  her 
from  worse  than  death — took  her  from  the  very 
street — clothed  her,  fed  her,  and  nursed  her  to 
health  again.  Did  you  see  her  dress?  It  was 
finest  silk  and  lace.  Did  you  see  the  rings  on 
her  fingers?  One  was  a  diamond,  Bertram,  as 
large  as  the  pearl  you  wear;  one  was  an  opal, 
set  in  pearls;  another,  a  ruby — and  she  told  me 
she  had  a  dozen  more  up-stairs." 
284 


Suzanne 

"Who  is  this  woman?" 

"She  did  not  tell  me.     I  forgot  to  ask." 

"What  was  the  promise  she  made  you?" 

"  To  visit  us — to  come  next  summer  to  Grassy 
Ford." 

"Us,  Letitia?" 

"Yes;  I  made  her  promise  it.  She  refused 
at  first,  but  I  told  her  there  were  hearts  as  loving 
in  Grassy  Ford  as  in  New  York — oh,  I  hope  there 
are,  Bertram ;  I  hope  there  are !  She  will  go  first 
to  the  farm,  of  course,  to  see  her  mother,  and 
then,  before  she  comes  back  to  this  new  mother, 
who  makes  me  burn,  Bertram,  when  I  ask  my- 
self if  any  woman  in  Grassy  Ford  would  have 
done  as  much — then  she  will  visit  us.  It  will 
mean  so  much  to  her.  It  will  set  that  poor, 
spoiled  life  right  again  before  our  petty,  little, 
self-righteous  world.  Oh,  I  shall  make  them  re- 
ceive her,  Bertram !  I  shall  make  them  take  her 
in  their  arms!" 

She  paused  breathlessly,  but  I  was  silent. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind,"  she  said. 

Still  I  could  not  speak. 

"Tell  me,"  she  urged,  "did  I  presume  too 
much?  Was  I  wrong  to  ask  her  without  con- 
sulting you?" 

19  285 


Miss  Primrost 

''No,"  I  answered — but  not  through  kindness 
as  Letitia  thought,  let  me  confess  it ;  not  through 
having  the  tenderest  man's  heart  in  the  world, 
as  she  said,  gratefully,  but  because  I  knew— 
how,  she  will  always  wonder — that  Peggy  would 
never  come. 


VIII 

IN   A   DEVON    LANE 

HAVE  never  seen  an  English  lane, 
but  I  have  a  picture  of  one  above 
the  fireplace,  and  I  once  smelled 
hawthorn  blooming.  A  pleasant, 
hedgerow  scent,  it  seemed  to  me, 
with  a  faint  suggestion  of  primroses  on  the  other 
side — I  say  primroses,  but  Letitia  smiles  when  I 
declare  I  can  smell  them  still,  or  laughs  with 
Robin:  they  have  been  in  England. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  about  it,  Bertram?" 
"They  do  have  primroses,"  I  reply,  defiantly. 
"But  are  you  sure  they  are  primroses?"  she 
demands. 

"Smell  again,  father!"  cries  my  son. 
"Yes,"  I  retort;  "or  violets;  they  may  be 
violets  beyond  the  hedge." 

It  is  then  they  laugh  at  me,  and  they  make  a 
great  point  of  their  puzzling  questions:  am  I 

287 


Miss  Primrose 

certain — for  example,  that  the  primrose  is  fra- 
grant enough  to  be  smelled  so  far,  and  is  it  in 
flower  when  the  hawthorn  blooms?  That  is 
important,  they  insist.  It  is  not  important,  I 
reply — in  my  England. 

"  Your  England!"  they  cry. 

"To  be  sure,"  I  say.  "In  my  England — and 
I  see  it  as  plainly  as  you  do  yours — the  haw- 
thorn and  primrose  is  always  flowering.  In  my 
England  it  is  always  spring." 

It  is  summer  in  theirs.  It  is  always  cool  and 
fragrant  and  wholly  charming  in  my  Devonshire. 
It  was  rather  hot  when  they  got  to  theirs — that 
is,  the  sunny  coast  of  it  they  brag  of  was  a  lit- 
tle trying,  sometimes,  I  suspect,  in  midsummer, 
though  neither  will  confess. 

"But  not  the  moors!"  they  say. 

"Oh,  well — the  moors — no;  I  should  think 
not,"  I  answer.  "I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to 
think  that  moors  are  hot." 

" How  cool  are  the  moors?"  they  then  inquire, 
innocently,  but  I  see  the  trick;  I  hear  the  plot 
in  their  very  voices,  and  am  wary. 

"Oh,"  I  reply,  "as  cool  as  usual." 

"But  there  are  dense  forests  on  the  moors," 
Robin  suggests.  "  Regular  jungles — eh,  father  ?" 
288 


In    a    Devon    Lane 

I  am  not  to  be  taken  without  a  struggle. 

"Hm,"  I  reply. 

"Hm— what,  father?" 

"  Well,  I  prefer  the  coast  myself." 

"The  dear  white  coast,"  says  Letitia,  slyly. 

"The  dear  red  coast!"  I  cry  in  triumph,  but 
they  only  sigh: 

"Ah,  it  was  a  wonderful,  wonderful  journey! 
One  could  never  imagine  it — or  even  tell  it.  One 
must  have  been  there." 

It  was  a  wonderful  journey,  I  then  admit,  and 
I  do  not  blame  them  for  their  pridefulness,  but 
what,  I  ask,  would  they  have  done  without  my 
map? 

I  am  bound  by  honesty  to  confess,  however, 
that  fair  as  my  Devon  is  with  the  vales  and 
moorlands  I  have  never  seen,  Letitia 's  Devon 
must  be  fairer.  She  found  it  lovelier  far  than 
she  had  thought,  she  tells  me,  and  she  smiles 
so  happily  at  the  mere  sound  of  its  magic 
name  —  what,  I  ask,  must  a  shire  be  made 
of  to  stand  the  test  of  that  woman's  dreams  ? 

"Here  we  have  hills,"  I  tell  her. 

"But  not  those  hills,  Bertram." 

"Have  we  not  Sun  Dial?"  I  protest. 

"Yes,  we  have  Sun  Dial,"  she  admits. 
289 


Miss    Primrose 

"We  have  winds,"  I  say,  "and  singing  waters, 
in  Grassy  Fordshire." 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  You  never  heard  the  Dart  or  Tamar  or  the 
Tavy.  You  never  stood  on  the  abbey  bridge." 

"And  where,"  I  ask,  "was  that?" 

"  That  was  at  Tavistock,"  she  replies,  "  at  dear 
little  Tavistock  after  a  rain,  with  the  brown 
water  rushing  through  the  arches  where  the 
moss  and  fern  and  ivy  clings — rushing  over 
bowlders  and  swirling  and  foaming  and  falling 
beyond  over  a  weir;  then  racing  away  under 
elm-trees  and  out  into  meadows — oh,  you  never 
heard  the  Tavy,  Bertram." 

"We  have  Troublesome,"  I  insist. 

"Yes,"  she  replies,  but  her  mind  is  absent. 
"We  have  Troublesome,  to  be  sure." 

Then  I  rouse  myself.  I  fairly  menace  her 
with  her  treason. 

"  Surely,"  I  cry,  "  you  do  not  prefer  old  Devon 
to  Grassy  Fordshire!" 

It  is  a  question  she  never  answers. 

"Grassy  Fordshire  is  your  native  heath,"  I 
remind  her,  jealously. 

"Devon  was  my  father's,"  she  replies,  "and 
mother's,  too." 

290 


In    a   Devon    Lane 

" Still,"  I  insist,  "you  do  not  prefer  it  to  your 
own?" 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  is  her  answer. 

Had  ever  man  so  exasperating  an  antagonist  ? 
She  declines  utterly  to  be  convinced;  she  talks 
of  nothing  but  that  ruddy  land  as  if  it  always 
had  been  hers  to  boast  of,  is  forever  telling  of 
ancient  villages  cuddled  down  in  the  softest  cor- 
ners of  its  hills  and  headlands  to  doze  and  dream 
in  the  English  cloud-shadows  and  the  sun — some 
of  them  lulled,  she  says,  by  the  moorland  music 
of  winds  among  the  granite  tors,  and  waters 
falling  down,  down  through  those  pastoral  val- 
eys  to  the  sea;  some  lapped  by  the  salt  waves 
rippling  into  coves  blue  and  tranquil  as  the  sky 
above  them,  and  others  still  in  a  sterner  setting, 
clinging  to  edges  in  the  very  clefts  of  a  wild  and 
rugged  coast,  like  weed  and  sea-shells  left  there 
by  the  fury  of  the  autumn  storms.  So,  she  tells 
me,  her  Devon  is;  so  I  picture  it  as  we  sit  to- 
gether by  the  winter  fire,  while  for  the  thou- 
sandth time  she  tells  her  story:  how  she  and 
Robin,  with  my  map  between  them,  made  that 
long  journey  which,  years  before  it,  the  gypsy 
had  found  forewritten  in  her  hand.  It  was  the 
very  pilgrimage  that  as  a  boy  I  planned  and 

291 


Miss   Primrose 

promised  for  myself  when  I  should  come  to  be  a 
man,  but  have  found  no  time  for — yet  my  son 
has  seen  it,  that  land  of  the  youth  whose  name 
he  bears,  so  that,  listening,  I  take  his  glowing 
word,  as  I  took  that  of  the  youth  before  him, 
for  its  moorland  heather  and  its  flashing  streams. 

Robin,  it  seems,  preferred  north  Devon — Lyn- 
ton  and  Lynmouth  and  their  crags  and  glens. 
Letitia,  I  note,  while  yet  agreeing  with  his  wild- 
est adjectives,  leans  rather  towards  the  south. 

"But  think,"  he  says,  "of  Watersmeet  and 
the  Valley  of  Rocks,  Aunt  Letty!" 

"I  do  think  of  them,"  she  answers,  "but 
think  of  Dartmoor,  my  dear." 

"And  so  I  do,"  is  his  reply. 

"That  day  the  wind  blew  so,"  she  calls  to 
mind,  "that  morning  when  we  rode  to  Tavis- 
tock." 

"Tavistock?"  I  always  ask.  "Tavistock? 
Where  have  I  heard  that  name  ?  Do  all  Devon- 
shire roads  lead  up  to  Tavistock?" 

She  only  smiles. 

"You  should  see  Tavistock,"  she  says,  and 
resumes  her  memories.  I  sit  quite  helpless  be- 
tween the  combatants.  They  differ  widely,  one 
might  think,  to  hear  their  voices  rising  and  fall- 

292 


In    a    Devon    Lane 

ing  in  warm  debate,  yet  listening  to  their  words 
I  detect  nothing  but  a  rivalry  of  praise,  an  ef- 
fort on  the  part  of  each  to  outdo  the  other,  as  I 
tell  them,  in  pasans  and  benisons  on  what  I  am 
led  inevitably  to  believe  is  the  fairest  of  earthly 
dwelling-places. 

When  Robin  withdraws  his  youthful  vigor  and 
goes  off  to  bed,  or  if  he  is  away  at  school,  from 
which  he  writes  such  letters  as  I  wish  Dove  could 
but  see,  the  talk  is  tranquil  by  our  hearth,  or  lit- 
tle by  little  drops  quite  away. 

"Such  lands  breed  men,"  observes  Letitia 
for  the  hundredth  time.  It  is  her  old,  loved 
theory,  the  worth  and  grace  of  a  rare  environ- 
ment, of  which  she  speaks,  sewing  in  the  fire- 
light. "The  race  must  be  hardy  to  wring  its 
living  from  such  shores  and  heights." 

"True,"  I  answer,  thinking  of  the  wreckers 
and  smugglers  who  haunted  those  creeks  and 
coves  in  years  gone  by — more  lawless  summers 
than  the  quiet  one  which  found  a  woman  on  the 
very  sands  their  heels  had  furrowed,  or  choosing 
flowers  to  press  on  the  very  cliffs  they  climbed 
with  their  spray-wet  booty.  I  think  vaguely 
of  the  soldiers  and  sailors  who  fought  the  battles 
whose  dates  and  meanings  it  was  Letitia 's  joy 
293 


Miss    Primrose 

to  teach  in  the  red-brick  school-house.  I  think 
more  vividly  of  great  John  Ridd  and  Amyas 
Leigh,  and  then — a  clearer  vision — I  remember 
that  other,  that  later  Devonshire  lad  who  was 
flesh  and  blood  to  me;  and  sitting  here  by  my 
Grassy  Fordshire  fire,  a  man  grown  gray  who 
was  once  a  boy  eating  the  slice  two  lovers  spread 
for  him,  I  keep  their  covenant. 

You  go  up  from  Plymouth,  Letitia  tells  me, 
and  by-and-by  you  are  on  the  moors,  marvelling ; 
and  you  like  everything,  but  you  love  Tavistock. 
It  is  in  a  valley,  with  the  Tavy  running  beneath 
that  bridge  of  which  she  is  forever  dreaming, 
for,  as  she  stood  there  watching  the  waters  play- 
ing, and  listening  to  their  song,  she  said : 

"Here  Robert  Saxeholm  was  a  boy.  How 
often  he  must  have  stood  here!" 

"  Robin  Saxeholm  ?"  asked  a  clear  voice  almost 
at  her  side;  and  Letitia  turned.  A  pretty  Eng- 
lish lady  stood  there  smiling  and  offering  her 
hand. 

"Yes,"  said  Letitia,  "did  you  know  him, 
too?" 

The  lady  smiled — a  sad  little  smile  it  was. 
She  was  in  black. 

"  fie  was  my  husband, "  she  replied,  "  and  this  " 
294 


In    a   Devon   Lane 

— turning  to  the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  girl  beside 
her  "is  Letitia  Saxeholm." 

"Why,"  my  Robin  cried— "why,  that's—" 
Letitia  Primrose  stopped  him  with  a  glance, 
and  turning  swiftly  to  that  little  English  maid — 
"Letitia?"  she  said,  taking  those  pink  cheeks 
gently  between   her  hands,   and  kissing  them 
wellnigh  with  every  word  she  uttered.      "Le- 
titia— what  a  sweet — sweet  name!" 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LI   RARY  FACILITY 


A     000136741     6 


